


Quarantine

by izzygone



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, Little bit of Fluff, Little bit of angst, M/M, Masturbation, Prostate Massage, UST, Virgin Sherlock, not-really-gay-but-okay-maybe-a-little!John, you can look but you can't touch sorry boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-31
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2017-11-27 16:50:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 32,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/664263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/izzygone/pseuds/izzygone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John are stuck in quarantine for 30 days. So close yet they can't touch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this is the first Johnlock story I ever wrote and it's finally finished! Thanks to everyone who stuck with me through a rough year and a half.
> 
> This is a chapter fic, completely unrelated to my other Johnlock series, The Spiral. 
> 
> Bit of fluff. Bit of angst. Lots of solo stuff. Rated E for the last 2 chapters. Enjoy :)

"It just sounds like a potential for disaster," John said, glancing at Sherlock who was still in his dressing gown and pajamas, barefoot, the fingers of his thin hands touching in front of his face, clearly deep in thoughts on an entirely different subject.

"Hmm? What does?" The detective replied, plainly having not heard a single one of John's concerns.

"Thirty days of quarantine, obviously. Is this really necessary?"

Sherlock turned to his best friend, disbelief apparent on his face, "How could we pass it up? An opportunity to study an entirely unknown culture! It's absolutely necessary."

"But thirty days? It's a bit excessive, isn't it?" John was having one of those moments. One where he should listen to his instincts which were screaming _BAD IDEA_.

"Hardly. Perfectly acceptable amount of time to guarantee we're not carrying external microbes into a delicate environment. Hardly even conservative, I'd say." Sherlock was tapping his foot now, and it was obvious to John that boredom was setting in. Already.

"I just don't think this is a good idea. I mean, you can hardly sit still for 2 days without a case, how do you expect to go 30 days in a single room?" John had his suitcase open and had been fretting about packing for days. Sherlock probably didn't even own a suitcase, and he certainly hadn't packed. John would have to do that for him, he supposed. They were going on a three month trip to L'Ile Perdue, the "lost island" discovered only recently in the Pacific ocean. Long thought destroyed by a volcanic explosion, the island was found to have a healthy number of occupants after hundreds of years without visitors. Not wanting to repeat the smallpox epidemic caused by Europeans crossing to the Americas 500 years ago, everyone visiting the island was required to go through 30 days minimum quarantine before visiting the island. Thirty days. Trapped inside a plastic cube. And Sherlock thought this would be fine?

"Oh John, you're being dramatic. I'll have you there, won't I? I'm sure you'll entertain. We'll be fine," Sherlock's voice was calm, but distant. It was tell-tale that the consulting detective was far, far away but John knew better than to attempt to guess where. He could be working on solving a case or simply categorizing tobacco ash.

John sighed, resigned to ignore the voice inside him which told him clearly: thirty days of Sherlock locked up would result in nothing good for any involved parties. "Aren't you at least going to pack?" He finally asked, exasperated.

Sherlock listened John muddling about the flat, made a note of every item the man packed – 2 toothbrushes? They would hardly be gone for that long – and ignored the poignant sighs and stares in his direction. Certainly, Sherlock could admit to himself that thirty days of quarantine might result in some boredom on his part, but that was hardly his problem and more so John's. He could stand himself perfectly well when he was bored, it was John who disapproved with Sherlock's methods to relieve boredom. "I'll get around to it," Sherlock said, watching John's movements from the perspective of the mirror across the room. It was the easiest way to irritate John into thinking he was ignoring him while still studying the man's every move.

"It's just as well I do it, I suppose," John said with a twinge of irritation, "But I hardly know what to pack for myself!"

"Oh, just pack whatever, nothing you're particularly attached to, though," Sherlock replied, and John could see he was still just staring straight ahead, ignoring John entirely.

"Nothing I'm attached to? What do you mean?" John turned and faced Sherlock, but Sherlock did not turn back.

"Well, nothing heat sensitive, at the very least."

John looked at his laptop, "Uhh, what?"

"Oh John," Sherlock finally turned to face his friend, noting the worn look on the doctor's face. Sherlock suppressed a smirk. How easily stressed his friend was. "Haven't you been paying attention? Quarantine, John! They can't let us take anything contaminated with us. It will all have to boiled."

"Boiled?" John said, frowning at Sherlock's obvious bemusement. His friend was hiding a smile and a laugh at his own expense, John knew from experience.

"Of course, to rid what we have of potentially infectious material," Sherlock replied, loving the look of astonishment mixed with... was it annoyance? Ah yes, well wasn't that always there when John looked at him? "They'll boil everything or at least put it through a hot-air drying room. Guaranteed to reach 70 degrees Celsius, at least."

"Our electronics?" John asked, not quite able to hide his disbelief and displeasure at this idea.

"Oh, I wouldn't suggest bringing any." Sherlock replied, adjusting his robe and still watching his friend, following every exasperated movement.

"Our clothes?"

"Oh, no doubt they will be boiled, too." Sherlock said with a detectable a hint of impatience.

 _Great_ , John thought, _hopefully they don't cold wash them after, that will ruin my whole system_ , "Well books would be alright... right?" He looked at his own suitcase, he'd picked at least half a dozen books to bring already.

"Sure, though they'll probably burn them after." Sherlock turned away again, looking back toward the mirror.

"Lovely." John finally replied and got back to work packing his suitcase, thinking about what he should pack for Sherlock.


	2. Chapter 2

Three plane trips, a day on a ship John was certain was designed by twelve year olds using markers, strings and Lincoln logs and a paddle boat later, John and Sherlock landed on the rocky shores of the lost island, just outside the quarantine facility.

They were the only visitors, the 30 day quarantine being enough to keep most explorers distant. There were a total of eight quarantine rooms, the attendant (whose name was Parson, but John would soon find himself referring to the man as "the warden" or "the prison guard") told them when they arrived, paired off in sets of 2 in small buildings. John and Sherlock would share one building, but they'd each be in separate cells. Sherlock had always suspected this, but John seemed a little confused to find he wouldn't actually be in the same room as his closest friend, "You'll still be able to see each other," Parson told them, "No touching is all, you know 'cause of cross-contamination and all that." He took them to their building and indicated the hermetically sealed entrances into each cell, "Now say your goodbyes and get in. Strip and put your clothing into the boxes there. There's some clothes in the cells for you to wear for now."

It was an awkward moment for John. He and Sherlock had no physical relationship, strictly speaking, but the idea of being physically separated from his best friend made John feel a little confused. What if Sherlock needed his help? What if he choked or needed medical attention? The idea made his blood pressure rise and his heart beat a little too quickly. It was all nonsense, of course, Sherlock would be fine. Still, John thought of all the strange unacknowledged, accidental contact between the two of them – John reaching into Sherlock's pockets for his phone, the way Sherlock handed things to him, deliberately making contact as though to reassure himself that John was still there – John couldn't imagine their relationship without those things. He couldn't be sure how Sherlock felt at that moment, so he didn't say anything. He awkwardly shook his friend's hand and said nothing, just nodded, to which Sherlock nodded back. Nothing to say. _No words needed_ , John thought.

The entrances to the quarantine cells were on oppose sides of the room. John turned right and Sherlock left, delegating who would take which being completely unnecessary. The walls of the entrances and the cells were entirely plexiglass and see-through. Nothing John could do about that, but still he felt embarrassed, removing all of his clothing in front of a complete stranger and worse – Sherlock. Sherlock seemed to have no reservations on this and, from what John saw from secretive glances in that direction – John wasn't gay, he had no reason to stare – and he was pulling his suit and button down shirt off without any consideration.

From the cubicle on his side of the room, Sherlock took in the naked form of his closest friend who was turned away, hiding himself. Embarrassment or shame? Sherlock wondered. The naked human form was nothing new to either of them, everyone showers, after all, and John was a doctor, surely he's seen this all before. Ah, of course John was being cautious to avoid the "gay" stigma. It seemed the older man worked very hard and consciously against that stigma, though Sherlock didn't know why he bothered. What small people think with their small minds was hardly cause for concern. Still, Sherlock hid his own gaze, not wanting his friend to feel uncomfortable, though he was certainly still observing. How could he not? It was still, after all, an opportune time to gather even more intelligence on the good doctor, a chance for Sherlock to more fully complete the portrait he had of the man. No such thing as too much knowledge. When he was certain John's back was fully to him, he took 7 seconds – he could afford no more – to commit the man's full body to his memory.

John was wonderfully muscular, the result of much activity following – and protecting – Sherlock on cases. Sherlock noted defined deltoids, glutes, hamstrings and calves, and the delicate protrusions of his friend's spine. The redness of the exit wound in his shoulder was obvious, fresh enough that the scar had not yet faded to white. His mind took a snap shot, something he could visit later, then he turned away and deposited his clothing in the allotted box.

The seals on the doors from the entrances into the cells released and Sherlock walked through his, careful not to look at his nude friend, acknowledging that this would make John uncomfortable.

To alleviate what John felt was a very awkward situation – but no doubt one Sherlock felt he could completely ignore – John hurried over to the white set of drawers in this cell which would be his home for the next 30 days and pulled out a set of cotton trousers. Well, at least it wasn't a hospital gown.

It did feel like a hospital to John, with all the white walls, white furniture, the little bed in the corner. No, not a hospital. A mental hospital. John felt like he could go crazy here. He was thankful, then, to have his friend with him, even if they were trapped in separate cubicles. At this thought, John looked across the room despite his better judgement and caught a glimpse of a full nude Sherlock, turned slightly away from him, peering into the open drawer of his matching dresser set. John turned away immediately. Was it going to be like this every day when one or the other got dressed in the morning? John really would go mad. What was wrong with him anyway? He saw nudity every day as a doctor. He'd have to get over this. And start changing in the bathroom they provided. He'd encourage Sherlock to do the same.

Still, he felt the image of a nude Sherlock – pale, thin, but not emaciated, with very little body hair – stuck in his mind vision for a moment. He thought perhaps he'd never shake the image. He forced it from his mind and sat down on the bed, head down, waiting for Sherlock to suit up, which he did.

Parson, ignorant of the thoughts of both men and obviously more concerned with finishing up his job and getting back to whatever it was he'd rather be doing, spoke, "Your belongings are being sanitized, they should be brought to you by tomorrow morning. We'll bring in a television for you to share, too, I warn you we don't get many channels. You're probably tired. I'll bring you food later tonight. Until then, get some rest." John acknowledged him with a nod of the head, and Parson turned and left.

Parson was right, John was tired. He laid down across the cot he was already sitting on, but Sherlock made no moves to do the same. Of course, John knew Sherlock wasn't tired. He didn't get tired unless he was drugged. The question was, would Sherlock let him sleep or keep him awake with some rant on a topic which John knew little or nothing about?

"Well, this is interesting." Sherlock said, taking in everything and pacing around, hands behind his back, a typical posture for observing.

"Sherlock, I'm going to bed." John replied, closing his eyes, determined to ignore his friend and hopefully put the image of him (nude) out of his mind.

"Very well," Sherlock nodded, and John sighed. Clearly he did not believe Sherlock had any intention of sitting down and shutting up, which of course was true. Sherlock ignored him and walked into his attached bathroom. It was small and white with metal fixtures. The shower head looked a little low, but Sherlock knew at least John would have no trouble, for no doubt his bathroom was identical. There was a short white toilet and a low white sink. A toothbrush in a little plastic sleeve. A single plastic cup, also wrapped in plastic like ones you see at hotels. Two bars of soap (white, unscented, also wrapped in plastic), one for the sink and the other for the shower. "No towels." Sherlock said aloud, not caring whether John could hear him.

"What?" John called out in an exasperated voice.

Sherlock smiled. Trying to sleep? Perhaps not that hard. "They've given us no towels, but made no indication that we should pack our own," he hollered out to his friend.

"Maybe they're going to blow dry us," John said, "like they're doing with our books."

Hmm, yes that was a possibility, though Sherlock doubted it. He saw no obvious vents in the chamber to indicate some type of sophisticated air drying system. It was just as well, Sherlock rather enjoyed the feeling of his robe against his wet skin, "Did you pack my robe?" He called out to John when he thought of that feeling he enjoyed.

"Of course I did," John replied, indignant, "Now, if I can get some rest."

"Of course," Sherlock repeated, coming out of the bathroom and taking in the sight of his friend laid out across his bed through the plexiglass. John did not look peaceful. He looked strained. Then again, when was John not strained?

Sherlock took the time to study the doctor's chest, now, which was bare as John was wearing only trousers. Sherlock noted the irony of a man's chest being exposed being considered socially acceptable while not wearing slacks or pants being totally inappropriate. John's chest was similarly muscular as his back, a small, puckered red scar at the entrance wound on his shoulder. Smaller than the exit wound, Sherlock noted. He wondered strangely if it was raised or flat against the skin. Was it just a visual mark or did it have dimension? His finger tips twitched as he longed to touch it. He wanted, as usual, to explore every facet of his closest friend. Unravel him.  **Really**  unravel him, not just deduce. His desire for this had a strange possessive twinge to it that he couldn't explain. To have a full and complete picture of John – to be the only person to possess such a thing – the desire consumed him at certain moments. It was natural, he told himself, to want to fully know and understand the person you lived with, partnered with, depended upon. The more he knew about John, the better friend Sherlock could be, he thought. And John deserved the best sort of friend, did he not? He was reliable and steady, the only person who reflexively defended Sherlock, trusted him, put up with him, appreciated him. There was something in that appreciation that spoke to Sherlock. How he loved to be the center of attention like any good narcissist, and John gave that to him. The least he could do was be a decent friend back.

* * *

The next day, Parson delivered their belongings to them through the hermetically sealed entrance. He set up a television in the communal area outside the cells so it could be seen by both Sherlock and John, though Sherlock had little desire to watch it since he was still so busy observing his friend. John asked about the towels, since he had wanted to take a shower that morning, "Oh, musta forgotten about them when they were setting this up," Parson replied, "I'll bring some for you later."

The reply wasn't ideal to John, who could get in quite a mood if he didn't have his coffee and hot shower in the morning, but it seemed he would have neither of those today. Sherlock relished these "moods" of John's. John was a notoriously reserved man, but when angry wore his emotions where Sherlock could pluck them off and study them.

Rather than acknowledge his irritation over the lack of coffee and towels and the fact that his and Sherlock's clothes were most likely shrunk by poor laundry practices, John picked up one of his three books and began to read. Sherlock watched him, but John ignored it. It felt as though the plastic between them was one way or sound proof. They hardly spoke three words.

Things continued this way for a few days, the pair hardly speaking. Parson brought towels. John read his book, sneaking glances at Sherlock, wondering when his flatmate would break into a cycle of boredom. Sherlock watched telly, which consisted of mostly broadcasts of the strange American game of baseball. Sherlock picked up on the basic rules of it pretty quickly and began telling players off for swinging when pitches were obviously low and would get particularly vocal when the pitcher decided to intentionally walk batters. John wasn't familiar with the game, but his companion's outbursts made him laugh and he rather appreciated having the telly there, especially since it pried Sherlock's eyes off him.

They had no system of alarms to wake them in the morning (it's not like they had anywhere they needed to be), but Sherlock wasn't much of a heavy sleeper and he liked to stay up later and wake up earlier to watch his friend, who mostly snored gently but would sometimes turn over erratically as though having bad dreams. After being there for four or so days, Sherlock woke early from his light sleep as Parson brought tea in for them and left it in their separate entrances. Sherlock acknowledged him with a nod, but they silently agreed not to speak and risk waking the peacefully sleeping John. It was warm in their cells and John rarely slept with blankets. His whole chest was exposed to his hips. Sherlock liked watching him like this, looking peaceful and innocent. It was easy to be thankful for his friend at these moments, easy for him to acknowledge what he owed John because there was no need for him to speak it aloud. He didn't need to acknowledge it to anyone but himself, and it was hard enough to do that sometimes.

Watching his best friend's chest rise and fall with gentle rhythm, Sherlock took in the sight of him, studying him. But something about him this particular morning was... different. It took Sherlock hardly a second to notice. The front of John's pajamas were... well, bulging. John had an erection. Morning wood, Sherlock seemed to recall it being called. He should have been ashamed to see it, but instead he studied it unabashed. He did, however, feel something strange at that moment. His throat went suddenly dry and he was shocked to note that he licked his lips without thinking. He felt unusually hot seeing his friend laying there wantonly with his erection all but on display. Sherlock turned around, not from embarrassment but instead to view himself in the mirror in the bathroom behind him. Flushed cheeks. Dilated pupils. He checked his pulse. Elevated. He swallowed hard to wet his throat and then coughed to clear it. Behind him, he heard John groan and turn over. He didn't look back but instead walked straight forward into his bathroom, stripped himself and turned on the shower.

It was strange, he found himself... aroused. It wasn't entirely unheard of, the male body, after all, was prone to do these sort of things at random moments and without cause. Sherlock had seen it in his own body many times before. This, however, was distinctly different. He wasn't aroused by some bizarre biological quirk. He was aroused by an actual event. He couldn't think of a single other occurrence of this – that is, a time when his body became aroused due to stimuli rather than of its own accord.

He didn't know what to do, really. He had, on occasion when he was younger, woken to find his body had expelled itself in its sleep – wet dreams, he recalled – but he had never purposefully caused an ejaculation in his life. He wasn't sure if he wanted to. Nonetheless, he thought back to the cause of the arousal – seeing John's own biological response – and he felt the strange sensation of his groin warming. His own erection was only increasing in size. He tried to think of something else. His mind brought the picture of John's back, completely nude, defined muscles, the scar on the shoulder – oh, that just made it worse! Sherlock wanted... well, he couldn't be sure, but he definitely wanted something and it very much involved John. And both of them being naked. He groaned in frustration. What a strange thing the body was! This was no biological imperative! This was not a desire to mate! This was a strange desire to rut against another person, to bring about pleasure of the body rather than the mind. It was too much. His skin was on fire, flushed head to toe. His member stood at full attention, aching like it never had before. He couldn't get the image of John out of his mind. He had to do something.

He stepped into the stream of water. It was cool and felt nice against his inflamed skin. Hesitantly, he reached down and touched his cock with gentle fingers. He gasped. Wow, that was a feeling. He wasn't surprised to find it pleasant – he knew there had to be a reason people did this so often – but he was a bit overwhelmed by just how pleasant he found it. He slowly moved his hand from the base of it to the tip and let out an involuntary hiss. Oh that was pleasant, but it didn't seem to relieve the burning he felt. He dragged his hand back to the base and couldn't stop a moan from crossing his lips. Well, this was quite an experiment. Yes, that's what it was – an experiment. Thinking of it as a scientific exercise soothed his mind. He wasn't doing this because he, Sherlock Holmes, was giving into some base desire. He was doing this to learn about the human body.

Again, he ran his hand from base to tip and back again, adjusting his grip to determine maximum pleasure. Still, it was not enough. He felt inflamed with desire – a desire for what, he still could not determine – and the simple touch of his own hand against himself was not enough to achieve release, though he began to pump himself a little faster now. He was over thinking it, of that he was sure. He needed to abandon himself to this to achieve his goal. Abandonment of self was not something that came easily to Mr. Holmes, however. He thought again back to the snapshot his mind gave him of John. He could trace every muscle with his eye and did so now, imagining – and trying not to think about the fact that he was imagining – his own hand running up the muscles, teasing them, counting them. His imaginary hand swept over the vision of John's war wound and then moved to John's front, touching the counterpart scar there. Yes, wow, that thought with the combination of his grip on his swollen cock created quite a sensation. One he wanted more of. _Needed_  more of.

He imagined, for a moment, that it was not his own hand touching himself but John's. Johns hand sliding up and down, faster, roughly over the head, a thumb tracing over the slit at the top, wet with precome. Oh! That was the ticket. He was pumping with wild abandonment now, faster, harder, the water slicking over him and creating gentle friction under his hand. He was really moaning now, but he hardly cared. It felt so good! John's imaginary hand was bringing him closer and closer to a release as he imagined leaning over his best friend and delicately kissing the scar, exploring it with his mouth. He was swelling now and felt himself tightening. He grazed his other hand over his tender balls. Ah! There it was, he cried out as his orgasm overwhelmed him. He leaned back against the wall of the small shower. He couldn't stand. He couldn't move. How could such a thing exhaust him so?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super short chapter, it's chapter 2 but from John's perspective.

John Watson awoke with a start. Something... something. He couldn't determine what woke him. He listened to silence for a moment. Maybe it was a bad dream, but he could have sworn he heard something... there it was! A groan or a moan... Sherlock! Was he in danger? Was something wrong? John sprang to attention. Where? Oh, right, they were still in quarantine. But where was Sherlock? He wasn't in his cell.

The groaning again. Where was it coming from? The door to Sherlock's bathroom on the opposite side was open, letting out a hazy mist from the shower within. Did Sherlock fall? Was he hurt? John stood and hurried to the plexiglass wall which separated their chambers. He listened again. Could he have imagined the whole thing? No, there it was, a low moan definitely coming from Sherlock. It sounded strained but not unpleasant. It didn't sound like Sherlock when he was genuinely hurt. John was familiar enough with that sound, he knew the difference.

But this sound was something different. He couldn't determine... it sounded almost as though Sherlock was... pleasuring himself. But that couldn't be. His friend never did anything like that in his life. Did he? There it was again, this time repeating, a little "oh, oh, oh!" John could barely hear over the sound of the shower. And he shouldn't be listening anyway! What Sherlock did in the privacy of his own bathroom was just that - private. Still, there was something in the noise. John couldn't acknowledge it, but he liked the way it sounded. It gave him a hitch in his throat and made him want... well, something, he didn't know what. Maybe he just needed a wank himself. It'd been a long time since he'd been with anyone and he certainly hadn't found the time or the privacy to attend to himself here. He honestly didn't think he could consider masturbating here, since he was so close to Sherlock. Obviously Sherlock had no qualms about it, though. John would also be quieter than Sherlock. He'd been doing it secretly for ages, wanking himself off in the shower he and Sherlock shared. Oh, he hadn't thought about that before. Wanking in the same shower as his best friend. It was a little disturbing, but honestly he hadn't considered it before. It's not as though Sherlock used the shower for the same thing... though perhaps he did?

From the noise he was making, though, John was sure he would have heard Sherlock wanking before now. He wasn't exactly being secretive. John realized now he was still listening to the soft moans of his friend's pleasure and felt quite ashamed. He was still staring at the bathroom, which was misty, but not so much he couldn't see in. In fact, he could see into the mirror straight across from him. He could even... oh god, he could actually see the misty nude reflection of... John averted his gaze. He was not watching his friend masturbate. He. Was. Not. Still, he couldn't stop himself from looking back. Sherlock had his head back, his eyes closed, hand wrapped tightly around his cock. Oh no, definitely not something John should watch. Yet he was curious... it was a train wreck and John couldn't look away. Sherlock looked so... lewd. So... human. This was not his reserved, sarcastic best friend. This was a man overcome with passion. And this man was... beautiful.

God, what was he doing? This was a private moment for Sherlock, and he was gawking like some peeping tom! He turned away again, ready to go into his private bathroom and relieve some of his current stress. But then he heard... what was it? His name? Did Sherlock see him there? He looked back, but no, Sherlock still had his head back, eyes definitely still closed, distracted and not observing whatsoever. He watched Sherlock's second hand move down and touch himself. He heard Sherlock cry out. John's name? No, he was definitely imagining that. Without one more thought, he turned completely around and entered his bathroom, closing the door behind him with an unexpectedly loud bang.


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

Sherlock heard the sound of his flatmate's bathroom door closing and realized his friend was awake. Had he woken John with his activities? He doubted it, the man wasn't exactly a light sleeper. Last year, Sherlock had snuck into his friend's room and plucked several nose hairs from him for an experiment without John noticing at all. No, most likely it was 6am and John had woken like military clockwork.

Sherlock leaned his head back against the wall of his shower. He hadn't yet recovered from his own little experiment. What a thing to have done. He'd never experienced it in his life. Once was enough, he thought. He had a highly addictive personality and the last thing he needed was to become addicted to some kind of self-gratifying sexual act. He'd never leave the flat again.

Finally, he stood, washing away the evidence of his pleasure. He didn't want to think about it. Masturbation was one thing. Masturbating to thoughts of your best friend and flatmate was entirely another. What would John think if he knew? He'd be disturbed by the homoerotism of it. Sherlock certainly wasn't planning to mention it anyway, not to John or even to himself. Ever.

Stepping out of the shower, he toweled off his hair and wrapped himself in his blue dressing robe. He stepped into the main section of his quarantine cell, glad that John was away taking a shower. He wasn't sure he could look at his partner without conjuring up indecent thoughts about the man. And Sherlock wasn't ready to address that issue. What was causing him to have these thoughts? He never considered himself overly attracted to any person before except perhaps in a mentally stimulating way, like the way he thought of Irene Adler, the woman. Exercise of the mind, that excited him! But this strange physical excitement... it was irrational and he didn't think he could stand it. It felt like his body was infected and betraying him. He'd have to get a handle on it. Immediately. He went to the entrance, finding the tea provided by Parson. It was cold, but not unpleasant. Tea was just what he needed to set him straight. A little sugar to balance the mind. He picked up the remote to turn on the telly but decided against it. He needed a little quiet time to sort out this body issue he was having.

John came out of the shower then, wrapped waist-down in a towel. Sherlock had to look away. Seeing John the way he had imagined him was too much. It was like admitting to the deed. He also felt the strange sensation again, building up heat at the center of his body. God, was it going to be like this all the time now? Would his body be constantly fighting his brain whenever he saw John? How could he work like this? He would simply have to recover from it. He picked up the tea and walked to his bed, setting the cup on the small table. He still did not look up at John.

"Sherlock." John said, noting that his friend was acting a bit strange. No eye contact -- that was particularly unusual for the man. Was he feeling ashamed about his sexual act? John could hardly imagine so. Sherlock's emotions were limited in scope – boredom and perverse excitement being the only feelings he was known to possess. There was nothing in between for his flatmate. At least, so John thought. He realized now he might not know as much about his enigmatic best friend as he thought.

"John." Came the curt reply. Still, Sherlock did not look up.

"You alright, mate?"

"Of course."

_Lying_ , John thought. Well, no point in pressing him. Get more information from squeezing a rock. "Shall I turn on the telly?"

"No, I think I'll get some rest." Sherlock was sitting on the bed now, eyes still downcast.

Now that was very unusual for the younger man. John wasn't entirely certain how to respond, "Are you ill?" He asked, thinking maybe this quarantine was a good thing.

"No, just tired." Sherlock said, pulling his dressing gown around him. John could see he wasn't wearing anything underneath, his pale, hairless chest showing through, "Just didn't sleep last night." He laid down, facing away from John, pulling his legs up to his chest in a fetal position.

John knew better than to press it, "Right, okay," he said, sitting on his own bed for a moment before realizing he was still in just a towel, "Just, let me know if you need anything." He completed the sentence and went to his dresser, pulling out a pair of khaki trousers and a jumper. With Sherlock's back turned, John felt more comfortable dressing in the common area of the cell.

Obvious to Sherlock, John had forgotten about the mirror on the opposite side of the room. In it, Sherlock could see John dropping his towel – oh those tight glutes! Why did he want to touch them so badly? – and pulling on his pants, trousers, a jumper. Sherlock wanted to look away. Needed to. He tried to close his eyes, but only found himself imagining taking the clothing back off John. Imagined peeling each item slowly off his body. Frustrated, he groaned.

"You sure you're alright, Sherlock?" John turned back to his friend, frowning.

"Yes, quite alright, thanks." Sherlock closed his eyes. He began reciting the periodic table of elements. Yes, that would make him feel better.

A little while later, John heard his friend begin to snore. Before the quarantine, he hadn't known much about Sherlock's sleeping habits, other than that he didn't really have any. He had never had an opportunity to observe the detective completely unguarded, and even since being in confinement, he'd hardly had the chance. It seemed Sherlock still stayed up late and woke up far too early. Sometimes, John woke in the middle of the night after a particularly bad dream to find his friend sleeping tranquilly. He would snore when he slept on his side, but if something disturbed him, he would flip onto his back and the snoring would subside.

Clearly there was something wrong with Sherlock for him to be abed at this time in the morning, but John couldn't guess what. He could extrapolate that it had something to do with what he had witness in the bathroom this morning, but he didn't really know enough about Sherlock's behaviors when alone to guarantee that. Maybe the act had simply been too exhausting for the consulting detective. John thought that was a definite possibility. Still, Sherlock seemed... out of it. John had seen his friend drugged, depressed, bored, but never like this. He seemed... like he was missing something. Or someone. He seemed like half of himself. Maybe he was just missing the excitement of London. Yes, Sherlock was probably bored without hope of relief. Surely, there was something John could do for him.

John got up quietly, realizing he'd been watching his friend sleep for some time now. He went to the entrance of his cube and retrieved his remote control for the telly. He hadn't fought with Sherlock over the programs he chose, but now he felt would be a good idea to see what the options were. Clearly they were able to get American tv, and John thought he could think of some shows that would cheer Sherlock right up. He turned the volume down as low as it could go and stood at the plastic wall between him and the telly. He flicked through the channels slowly, watching each for 10 minutes to be certain whether it was the channel he was looking for. Eventually, he found it. Yes, this was the perfect one. He almost hit the volume button, wanting Sherlock to wake to this which would certainly cheer him up, but he stopped. Sherlock had turned over onto his back, the snoring had ceased.

John walked over to the wall between him and his closest friend. The robe covering Sherlock parted more at the top now, and John could see him clearly from his long, slender neck, tight shoulders and slightly define pecks down to the sparse trail of dark hair leading across his stomach down to... well, just down. Sherlock had absolutely no more body than was strictly necessary. No excess fat or muscle, he was just lean. His features defined yet still delicate. Slightly feline almost. Not that John would ever describe his flatmate as feminine. His adam's apple was prominent, and John found himself staring at it, watching it bob slightly with Sherlock's labored breaths. He swallowed unconsciously. He observed Sherlock's features, the face so vacant and innocent, all high cheekbones and a jaw that could cut glass. The normally furrowed brow was relaxed now, the same way he looked sometimes when John made him laugh. John longed to see the smile that accompanied that, but at the same time he was content to see his friend this way.

Sherlock groaned again, turned over so he was facing John, pulling himself back up to his defensive position, legs curled up to his chest. His dressing gown parted more, exposing Sherlock's bare thigh. John couldn't look. Well, perhaps he could. There was nothing wrong with observing his friend, was there? Not when he was trying to learn about him. Sherlock would probably even encourage it, no doubt. Yes, that was certain. John stared at the exposed thigh. It was pale, a light peach color. Soft, sparse brown hair curled on it. Something made John want to reach out and stroke it.

Now there was a strange thought -- stroking Sherlock's thigh. Why had he thought that? Of course he didn't really want to touch Sherlock. That was absurd. Perhaps he just wanted to comfort his friend who was obviously distressed, worried about something. It was clear from the way Sherlock slept, defending himself instinctively, curled up like that. John wanted to curl around him, protect him.

God, what strange thoughts he was having. He'd thought Sherlock would go crazy locked up for 30 days, but it turns out it was John who was losing his mind. He went back to the entrance of his cell, turning the volume on the telly up as he did. He put the remote control back where it belonged and retreated back into his confinement, seating himself on the bed and waiting for Sherlock to wake.

Which he did, with a start, "What-" He all but shouted, waking violently. Oh, of course, he was still in quarantine. Still on his bed. Wrapped in his dressing robe, his hair still damp from the earlier shower – oh the shower! Why did he have to think of it? – and the noise was coming from the telly. Clearly John had turned it back on. Inconsiderate of him to turn it on quite so loudly, wasn't it? "John, what are you doing? Forget I was sleeping?"

"Just shut up and watch the show, you git," was the reply. Sherlock sat up, realized the robe was parted nearly at his waist and pulled it around himself tighter. He turned and faced the telly, what was on?

It wasn't a baseball game, which disappointed Sherlock; he'd grown rather fond of the sport with its little complexities. It was something different. Some kind of drama. Oh! A crime drama, that was nice. It was the middle of the show already, so Sherlock had missed some of the clues from the start. Oh, a challenge. Superb! Something to get his mind off the images of John.

"It was the drug dealer's aunt." Sherlock stated after about two minutes of watching the show.

John was disappointed, that was a little too quick, "How do you know?"

"It's obvious, isn't it? Look at the way she holds her shoulder. They're ignoring her because they think she's too delicate to wield a scythe, but in a pool, it hardly matters does it? Weight matters little underwater. The real question is why she was having a duel with the mother in the first place."

John laughed. His friend was back. It was good to hear him deducing, even if it was something silly like a crime drama, "Well you'll have to let me know the reason when you know it," John replied, still chuckling. He was content now to watch the show with his friend. They felt close again, though still far apart. It was strange, John thought, the feeling that plexiglass created. They might sit this far apart from each other in the flat and he'd never think a thing about it. With the plexiglass there... he just felt so disconnected.

Luckily, it seemed John had found a whole network dedicated to these ridiculous crime dramas. There was a marathon of CSI: Miami for Sherlock to pick apart ("Clearly he's not the murderer! Look at his cuffs!") and it kept John entertained, watching his friend have a good time. It seemed whatever strangeness had taken over Sherlock this morning had passed, and John was thankful for that.

 


	5. Chapter 5

They'd been in quarantine for over a week. Sherlock kept himself entertained watching marathons of CSI, the Mentalist (figured out who Red John was in the first episode) and Law & Order. John kept himself entertained listening and watching Sherlock. It was like old times. They each got a phone call via the facility landline from Lestrade, John's just to find out how they both were, Sherlock's to get help on a case by proxy. Sherlock solved the case by ordering Lestrade around, making him count the number of pieces of cutlery the deceased owned (missing a fork? Must have been the mother-in-law).

"You're brilliant." John told him after he hung up the phone.

"Yes, thank you." Sherlock replied.

John laughed, "Honestly, I never know how you do it, but you always manage to amaze me."

Sherlock couldn't help but smile at his friend's laugh. John was so cheerful, it made him feel cheerful. And the compliments. Sherlock couldn't deny that they stroked his ego in a pleasant manner. John was the only one who appreciated his deductions – _really_ appreciated – and for that, Sherlock could not help but feel affectionate toward the older soldier. Why or how he managed to deal with Sherlock's obvious narcissism and complete social ineptitude when no one else could, that was the only mystery Sherlock could not solve. In fact, Sherlock deduced that this eternal mystery was what drew him to John and even, perhaps, what created the strange jealousy and possessiveness Sherlock felt for his friend. And it was the possessiveness, Sherlock determined, that created the physical attraction Sherlock felt. It was a natural next step in his bizarre desire to possess the doctor as his own. It was comforting that he had solved that, at least. He no longer felt the need to hide his gaze from his best friend. He could look at John without feeling suddenly aroused (though if he looked at his flatmate at bed, when his chest was bare... well, that was hard to stand, but he managed).

John could see his friend was pleased with the attention John paid him, the corners of his mouth tightening but withholding a smile. A classic narcissist. But John wasn't lying for the sake of his friend's ego. He thought the man was totally, 100% brilliant. John didn't like the idea of hero worship, but sometimes it seemed to describe how he felt about Sherlock. John wasn't one to hide the truth, if he thought Sherlock was being a miserable prat, he was just as likely to say so as he was to tell the man he was brilliant when he was being, well, brilliant.

The consulting detective nodded, acknowledging the compliment but pretending to be unaffected. That made John laugh. Sherlock couldn't prevent himself from doing the same, "The thing with the cutlery just now, wow, magnificent, and Lestrade... just imagine him tottering about following your orders," John said, laughing, and Sherlock laughed more still. He loved to hear that laugh. It was a good sign when Sherlock laughed, it meant everything was right in the world.

He couldn't explain it, but John felt a strange desire to close the gap between himself and his friend. Of course, the plexiglass wouldn't allow for this. His mind kept bring him back to that stupid clear wall between them. He swore he wouldn't have thought twice about the space between them back home, where there were no walls. Seemed like now, it was all he thought about. Of course, if they were home, they would already be right next to each other. There'd be no distance to consider. He would be right next to Sherlock without thinking a thing about it. Strange how he missed that.

Still, there were things about this quarantine that he positively enjoyed. The fact that he had Sherlock all to himself, for example. There was no where to go, no pressing cases to solve. No cell phones to distract. No Mycroft with state emergencies. No severed heads in the refrigerator. No Mrs. Hudson rushing into the flat at inopportune moments. Just him and Sherlock, nothing to interfere. Except that damn plexiglass.

* * *

 

For Sherlock, sleeping has always been a conundrum. On the one hand, the body has need of rest for the sake of repair and recollection. On the other, sleeping was dangerous. He could miss precious ideas, and though he taught his mind against it long ago, he could even lose memories or thoughts in sleep. Or worse, someone could come in or something could happen without him having any idea. For years, he's been trying to master the technique of maintaining bodily sleep while keeping his mind awake and sensitive. It has always failed, and so he took up managing to survive on the barest amount of sleep possible. Since coming to the quarantine, however, he has taken up the experiment again.

Quite successfully, in fact. He lay there, matching the rhythm of his breath with that of his flatmate, feeling his whole body shut down quite completely. No sensation. Total body relaxation. One breath at a time, in and out, following the exact pattern laid out by his slumbering companion. But Sherlock was still awake. He could think – though he devoted much of his brain space to maintaining the rhythm of John's breaths – yet he was resting. What marvelous success! He felt like jumping. It was Christmas! Still, the excitement could upset the routine, so he remained still.

He couldn't be sure just how long he laid like this – synced up with his best friend, comatose yet still aware and listening. God, whatever this was, it was brilliant and frightening. Had his previous experiments with this technique simply been lacking the rhythm? Or had it been lacking _this_ rhythm, John's rhythm? Sherlock didn't want to think about it, so he didn't.

Awhile into the night, Sherlock heard something. It sounded like a sob. And it interrupted John's smooth, rhythmic breathing. It didn't immediately bring Sherlock out of his state, however. His body remained unmoved, but his mind was flashing and awake. His ears prickled as he listened. Another sob, then a shriek and a cry.

John!

Sherlock willed his body back awake. The process was slow, like perhaps there wasn't enough oxygen to reach all his limbs. John was still crying out, and Sherlock began taking deep breaths. He tried to calm himself. John was fine. It was just a nightmare. Still, the idea that his doctor needed him was overwhelming and panic inducing. Sherlock struggled and began moving his extremities one at a time, willing them to release their hold on sleep and obey his commands. But even if he could get up, what could he do? John was still on the other side of the glass, but at least Sherlock could rouse him from this nightmare. Save him from it.

John was crying, restlessly turning over, turning away from the horrors in his head. "Sherlock!" He cried, reaching his hands out. Sherlock heard his name and it was like splashing his face with cold water. He was violently awake now.

He hurried to the plexiglass wall and put his hand against it, "John! John, I'm here!" He called out, hoping to wake his friend. The doctor stirred, but did not open his eyes.

John cried out Sherlock's name again, desperately. It sounded strangled and despairing. Sherlock could not handle it. The desire to reach out to John, shake him awake and comfort him; it was overwhelming. Sherlock hit his hand against the glass between them, whether in an attempt to bring it down or simply create a noise great enough for John to hear, he wasn't sure, "John!" He yelled again louder, and the doctor moaned but still did not wake.

There was a button, in the entrances to the cells, which would open them in the event of an emergency, a fire, for example. Sherlock was tempted now to use that button, but it would sound an alarm and rouse the whole complex. And they would hardly understand the need to reach his friend over something a benign as a nightmare. Sherlock would have still done it, if it hadn't meant walking away from his friend for more than a fraction of a second.

John's face showed terror and he shifted from side to side, still calling out, still moaning and writhing. Sherlock began to think his friend was genuinely hurt. He hit the glass again in frustration and called out.

John woke, covered in sweat and horrified by that dream again. He thought he'd heard Sherlock. He'd thought he'd hear him call out. But no, it must have been the dream. It was that same dream. The one where Sherlock was falling. Not just falling but had jumped. _God_ , oh god, _why_? Why that horrifying dream? It was worse than any other. It was worse than the nightmares about the war. Worse, even, than the war itself. Worse than getting shot. It was more like getting shot in the heart. Then, still breathing, desperate for life, having that same, bullet ridden heart being ripped from his chest. God, it hurt so badly. He rubbed his sternum and sat up. Tears. Where was he? Still in quarantine. He was desperate to see Sherlock, but wasn't sure that he could move. He was still crying.

"John," he heard a whisper from behind him. He turned and saw Sherlock, pressed against the pane of plastic that forcibly separated them, his palm flat against it, as though he were trying to reach across.

"Sherlock," John responded, turning away again. He couldn't let Sherlock see his tears. He could handle a lot of things. Murder, yes. Blood and gore, yes. Bullet to the shoulder, yes. Sacrificing three months of his life on a voyage to an island he knew and cared about little, yes, okay no problem. Letting Sherlock think he was weak? Never.

Sherlock repeated his name, low and tentative. God, had he heard John's nightmare distress? Obviously. What he must be thinking, John had no idea, "John, come here."

John turned, seeing his friend still against the glass, still with his hand up. He didn't want to (though he did, didn't he?) but he rose anyway, tears still streaking his face, and walked to the wall. He looked into Sherlock's eyes, all filled with concern and sympathy. He couldn't bear to see that look on the consulting detective's face. It wasn't a look he'd ever seen. John averted his gaze.

"Look at me, John," Sherlock's voice was calm, steady but seemed a little higher pitched than normal, "It's okay," he said, spreading his fingers against the glass, like he wanted John to string his fingers back through them, "I'm here, it's fine."

Hesitantly, John put his fingers against the wall in the exact spot Sherlock had his. Slowly, he stretched them out until his palm, too, was against the plexiglass. He wanted... well, what use was it in hiding it? He wanted to touch Sherlock in that moment. Reassure himself that his flatmate was really there. Was real. Sherlock moved forward, pressing his whole body against the wall now. And John moved toward him. He leaned his head against the glass. Like he was leaning on Sherlock's chest. But he couldn't feel the warmth of his friend. He started to cry again then, he couldn't stop it.

Sherlock, with his body pressed flat against the plexiglass, desperately wanted to reach out and comfort his friend. He wanted to stroke John's back and chest and hair and everything. He wanted to kiss away the older man's tears and touch his mouth. Gah, this idea made Sherlock's chest burn and he wanted to rip down this wall in between them. The anger at this stupid piece of synthetic methyl methacrylate polymer flooded his whole body. He wondered if this surge of anger was enough to bring down the wall. If he set himself to it, he believed he could really accomplish anything. Tearing down this wall would have dragged him away from his John, though, and he wasn't doing that for anything.

John stopped crying after awhile, but still he stood there, head against the glass at the spot where Sherlock's chest connected with it, listening to the soft and soothing sounds coming from Sherlock. He couldn't believe it. Sherlock was actually consoling him. What'd he do to have this on camera. Whenever he felt lonely and separated from Sherlock, he would have watched it. What a sight it must have been.

Huh. Again, John had found himself thinking strange thoughts about his flatmate. Wanting to watch a video of Sherlock consoling him? That really was bizarre. He down shifted his eyes at this thought because, well, it was simply too romantic. He couldn't have romantic thoughts about Sherlock. He wasn't gay.

Still, he found himself letting his eyes trail down his friend's body, fully displayed against the plastic wall. Sherlock, wearing his normal pajamas – barefoot, trousers and a robe, no shirt – was a feast for the eyes. Pale and slim, John was sure he could trace the detective's every vein with his eyes or, if they were close enough, his fingers. Or even his tongue.

 _Whoa_. Too many thoughts, perhaps, Doctor Watson? _Maybe you should put yourself to bed_ , he thought. He didn't move, however, and remained impassive, surveying his flatmate's body. He worked his eyes up from Sherlock's feet to his lean and long calves and even leaner and longer thighs, the shapes of which were barely concealed by the thin silk there. And John had picked these pajamas to pack? What had he been thinking? Obviously he hadn't been... or if he had, it had been subconscious.

His eyes crept higher and... oh, there it was. The spot where Sherlock's legs met his body, his pelvic bone, his... hard on. John was taken back, but he managed not to move. He swallowed thickly. He tried to remember to breathe. He closed his eyes. He looked back. Oh, yes, that was there.

He tried not to move or give away to Sherlock's that he had noticed this change. In fact, he was trying to convince his own body that he hadn't seen this. His body was reacting quite abnormally. He felt blood rushing into his own extremities. All of them. No. He was not getting hard right now. He. Was. Not.

But he was. The sight of his best friend's erection was arousing him. He needed to fight it. Instead, his mind provided him with images of Sherlock, naked and touching himself in the shower that one day. No, not images; movies. Fully detailed, surround sound films of Sherlock, naked and flushed, reaching down, stroking himself with heavy rhythm. Touching his balls, calling out John's name. Oh, _no_.

Sharp intake of breath. Was that him? No, it was Sherlock. Sherlock's ability to observe was coming back in a vengeance, and he noticed John's own response immediately. John wanted to hide. He wanted to hide in the bathroom. But he didn't. His body wouldn't let him. His body... it burned to touch Sherlock's. He lifted his head and looked Sherlock in the eye. Pupils dilated, but that was because of the darkness of the room, wasn't it?

Neither one said anything. Sherlock opened his mouth but remained silent. Oh yikes, Sherlock speechless. That couldn't be good.

Finally, John cleared his throat, "I..." he started, but didn't really know where to go from there.

Sherlock nodded in response, "Perhaps it's time for both of us to go back to bed."

John nodded back. Yes, definitely. Sherlock backed his pale body away from the plexiglass, but kept his hand in place. John had a better view now, Sherlock's hairless chest, the outlines of his lean muscles. His nipples, erect. That took John's breath away. And his erection... oh, it was lying out before him causing a bulge in the younger man's expensive pajamas. John looked up and away. That was... a bit too much to handle. His eyes touched on Sherlock's face, watched him lick his lips. John thought he would faint. Actually faint. The look in Sherlock's eyes... seductive; the tongue gently prodding the lips... irresistible. Yikes, yes, definitely time for bed. He pulled his hand away from the plastic wall and felt suddenly... cold.


	6. Chapter 6

It was difficult, but John finally turned away from his beautifully disheveled, horribly aroused best friend. It was like breaking a link. He'd felt so connected to Sherlock in the moments before, and now he just felt... empty and unsure. He shuffled himself back to bed, and he saw out of the corner of his eye that Sherlock was doing the same.

John laid down, closed his eyes. _Okay_. He was going back to sleep. He had to. He would think of something else. His erection would deflate. In the morning, this would just be a bad dream. He tried to regulate his breathing, a technique he'd learned from a friend during his army days. But he couldn't. _God_ , he couldn't. His breath was ragged. The intense, smoldering link between him and Sherlock was still there, heating him like a charcoal fire. Each breath from Sherlock on the other side of the plexiglass – _goddamn that motherfucking wall_ – caused the coals to heat and flame red. Yes, that's exactly what it was like. His balls and cock were coals responding to Sherlock's breathing.

John needed... well, he needed to get off. Like _right now_. Because this... this was too intense. His body was too high, too full and too tense. Yes, of course, that's what it was. It'd be so long since he'd masturbated, nearly 10 days (tempted as he had been the morning he witnessed Sherlock, erm, ah, touching himself... John had refrained from tossing one off; it was just too gay for him). But he couldn't do it now, could he? Sherlock would notice, of course, if he got up now and spent 10 minutes (though let's be honest, it'd be more like 5) in the bathroom. He'd have to wait until his flatmate fell asleep.

How could he, though? He let out an involuntary groan and adjust himself in his pants. _Ah!_ That light touch, the touch of his hand through the cotton... oh, it was nice. Yes, he was definitely on fire. And in very serious danger of ending up with the most massive case of blue balls known to the scientific community. With as much speed as he could get away with while still remaining near if not total silence, John reached into his trousers and pulled himself out the hole in his pants, wrapping his hand around his erect cock. _Oh_ , yes, nice, good. He hissed at the temptation to start stroking himself. Instead, he just held, adjusted the pressure, as though he were trying to hold himself back. And he really was, wasn't he? This erection had a mind of its own, and if he didn't stop it, it might do something crazy. Like break down a plexiglass wall and force its way into Sherlock.

_Woah_. Hold up there, doctor. So. Many. Intense. Thoughts. About Sherlock, of all people. Okay, okay, he needed to calm himself. He needed to think of something besides Sherlock's smoldering eyes, all heady and sex filled. He tried to think of Meredith, his most recent shag (most recent? That was months ago...), think about her pert breasts... but no, that wasn't the image his mind supplied. Instead, he thought of Sherlock's pale chest, stretched against the pane of plastic separating them. His raised nipples, which looked so sensitive and wanting in the moonlight streaming down from the skylight in their roof. He thought of the feathery, dusting of light hair that led from the middle of Sherlock's stomach down into the depths of that dressing gown he always wore. He thought of the exposed white thigh he'd seen a couple of days ago... he gulped. Oh, this was not helping. Unconsciously, his hand had moved from the based of his cock back to the top. Once. Twice. _Oh god, no._ He was not doing this. He was not wanking to the thought of his best friend's pale, luminous, nearly-hairless chest, with muscles, ever so slightly defined and hiding the true power there... yeah, no. Bad. Bad, bad, bad John. But John couldn't stop himself. He wanted to come on that chest.

He absolutely stopped at this thought. What. The. Fuck. Something was really, really wrong with him. He wasn't just fantasizing about his best friend, no; wasn't just fantasizing about coming on his best friend's chest, no; he was doing this fantasizing with his best friend _lying in the room attached_. He released his cock and hissed again. His hand was cold again, like his erection had been so hot, it seared him.  _Clinically debilitating blue balls, here I come_ , he thought because he was certainly **not** getting off right now. Not with his flatmate so close they could have literally touched if not for that ( _cock blocking, motherfucking, cunt rag, piece of shit_ ) plastic between them. He started to slip his hand out from under the elastic of his trousers.

"John." Sherlock's voice came, low and thick, from the cell next to him.

John's hand froze. He froze. No, _no_. This. Was. Not. Happening.


	7. Chapter 7

For the first time in his life, Sherlock was not 100% certain of what he was going to say next. He had a lot of things he wanted to say ("please John, describe it to me," "if you're going to do that, either turn on the light on so I can watch or go into the loo because it's simply too distracting," "would you like me to talk you through it?"), but he couldn't seem to form the words. His mind was hot and buzzing, overwhelmed with a deep rooted need to run his fingers over John's pectoral muscles, down his stomach and over his erection.

With his mind this hot, he couldn't even determine with any kind of certainty what he could say without causing John to shrink away from him... this moment seemed very fragile to him. It was made of glass and would shatter if he said or did anything that wasn't exactly right. But he  _couldn't_  stay silent. Not when he was erect to the point of distraction and pain. Not when he could imagine John's hot breath on his chest so vividly that he could almost feel it.

He heard John's ministrations on the other side of the glass, heard him stroking himself gently, heard him biting back moans, and it made Sherlock so hard, so ready, he was leaking; he could feel the stickiness collecting on the fabric of his pajamas. His cock throbbed and twitched – it was so, so ready (but ready for what? Was this a sign of a masturbation addiction forming? Oh why, oh why had he given into that temptation in the first place? Now it was all he could think about – that and actually touching John). It moved against the fabric of his trousers, stretched to the point of strain, causing him to expel breath rapidly, taking in air only shallowly. It was worse than that first time, the day he'd seen John's arousal the first time. Oh god, now he was thinking about that... and thinking about tonight, seeing John rise to attention, pressed against the glass. Sherlock licked his lips again, a bad habit definitely forming.

He had to say something. It wasn't a matter of choice when he ached this badly. "John." Yes, oh god, he'd spoken aloud, just the name, breathy and hot such that he didn't even recognize himself. He needed to say something else, but what? What in the world? How could he convey just how desperately he wanted to cross into John's side of the cell? Just how badly he needed to touch John's body, explore that scar and the ridges of his military honed muscles? How could he reassure his friend that he, too, wanted to touch, smell, kiss the other's skin? He knew John wanted it, too, now. It was obvious by his reaction to Sherlock's arousal. He went from soft and weepy to hard and stimulated, ready and panting. And now he was just on the other side of the plastic barrier, touching himself. Sherlock couldn't hold himself back, he parted his lips again to speak –

"Let's... not do this right now," John spoke, preempting Sherlock's deduction speech – the one in which he planned to explain to John in detail exactly how it was obvious that they needed to relieve these base desires – and Sherlock frowned, not used to or liking being interrupted mid-thought, "We're both tired and we're both..." John paused and Sherlock could imagine the furrowed brow attached to that hesitation, "Lonely," he finished.

Yes.  _YES, exactly_ , Sherlock thought,  _We're both lonely and we should both stop being lonely. Right now. Stop being lonely by TOUCHING EACH OTHER_. But he just cleared his throat and held those thoughts in. He didn't want to rush John or make him feel uncomfortable, but – he nearly groaned thinking this – it was so  _obvious_  that they both wanted this, why was it even a discussion?

"Right, of course," Sherlock replied, curtly and wounded.

"Sherlock, I didn't mean –"

"No, it's fine," And he tried to mean it, "I'm going to get some sleep." His first lie of the night. He knew there would be no sleep, not with his cock hard and wanting, not with John's bare chest and wanton erection on his mind.

John didn't reply, and Sherlock closed his eyes, watching the moving pictures his mind was creating. He heard John move, sit up, turn toward the opposite wall. As he suspected might happen, John stood and walked into the bathroom.

 _Oh, oh, oh_ , Sherlock knew exactly what was going on in there. He could imagine it in perfect vivid detail. So detailed, in fact, that he wanted once again to tell John not to bother.  _Just turn on the lights and let me watch._  It wasn't going to happen tonight, though, so Sherlock let his brain do what it did best: deduce John.

No doubt, John would turn on the shower, turn it up as hot as it would go, stripping himself one item at a time, carefully folding each piece and setting it tidily on the lidded toilet.

He would start with his socks, bracing himself against the wall (Sherlock's mind went off course here a moment, imagining pressing John chest-first against that wall, holding him there, running his lips up the doctor's neck, sucking roughly on his earlobe, nibbling at the sensitive skin there and the licking his tongue up the ridge of cartilage. He swallowed hard, trying to wet his parched throat again), he'd pull off the left first, then the right (without causing them to turn inside out) and lay them down, one on top of the other, perfectly aligned.

Then he'd move onto his trousers, tugging them off slowly, exposing his black cotton briefs (which in Sherlock's mind appeared quite snug) but he wouldn't just let them just slide off and hit the floor, oh no, not when he planned to put them back on. Instead, he'd lean down (Sherlock's mind outlined each muscle jutting out of John's back at this moment, lingering over each tiny mar on the skin, the mole near the neck, the cluster of freckles near the base of the spine; the detective's tongue darted out of his mouth again, wet and desperate to touch something), he'd pull them all the way to his ankles, grab the left trouser leg and lift his foot out of it, clutching the fabric in his hands. He'd repeat this action with the right leg, folding the clothes and setting them down neatly by the socks. Then he'd be standing in nothing but the black briefs, chest gleaning with a thin sheet of sweat caused by holding himself back, stopping himself from touching where he needed it most.

He would be heavy and desperate with need by now, and Sherlock could imagine the doctor's cock, swollen and pulsing, he could imagine the man reaching down, adjusting himself in his brief and cooing "ah, ah!" at the slight pressure there. John would hook his fingers under the band of his pants and tug swiftly down, bending over and exposing his bare arse to Sherlock's daydreaming self.

Sherlock allowed himself another indulgence – imagined running his hand over that smooth, pale skin, gripping the meaty part of John's buttocks, pressing in hard enough to bruise, holding John still enough to rut gently against –  _oh! oh!_  Sherlock's body was responding to this fantasy and reminding him that it too demanded release. He reached down, therefore, and cradled his own erection over his pants, rubbing it from bottom to top, lingering at the tip, squeezing it just a little too roughly, imagining doing that same thing to John.

But that wasn't what John was doing to himself, Sherlock knew. John would be hesitant, right now, still unsure what his mind wanted even if it was clear what his body sought. He'd be leaning against that wall again – the same one Sherlock wanted to thrust him against – he'd have his hand wrapped around his cock tightly but not moving, just like he'd been doing moments ago, lying in bed. Beads of sweat would be forming on his brow now, furrowed and determined the same way he looked when trying to help Sherlock puzzle out a case. Oh, that expression, which Sherlock could see in his mind so sharply, having seen it so many times before. Sherlock imagined that's the same expression John had his face when he came.

John would stand like this for several minutes, Sherlock knew, giving the consulting detective plenty of time to study the doctor's frame, his joints, the parts where his body met more of itself. Sherlock wanted to examine these parts, test how well connected they were. He wanted to do something more than that though, and he couldn't determine straight away what it was.

Ah, yes, he wanted to  _lick_  them. He wanted to taste the sweat that gathered between John's fingers, smell the distinctly John scent that came from between his thighs and, well, taste that too. How did John taste? How did anyone taste, as a matter of fact? The tongue was the one organ Sherlock spent very little time examining. Until this moment, he had no desire to try anything new, everything he put into his mouth had tasted essentially the same with slight variations in texture and viscosity that had seemed so unimportant at the time. Now, he wanted desperately to experiment. He wanted to try everything John had to offer – his skin, the wetness of his mouth, his sweat, his come.  _Oh god,_ yes, that's what the lip-licking was about. Sherlock wanted John in his mouth, wanted to slide his tongue over something hard and dripping. He wanted to feel John at the back of his throat.

Sherlock was gasping for breath now, imagining sucking John's cock into his mouth, imagining running his tongue back and forth over the glands, under and around the foreskin in the same pattern his finger was tracing on his own erection. He wanted – no, needed – something to suck on, something to help him relieve this desire. All he had were his own fingers, so he shoved first two then three into his mouth. Mmmm, he moaned around them. He practiced moving his tongue around them, twisting and sliding it, imagining it was John and trying to figure out just what he would like. Twirling, yes oh! That was it, he twirled his tongue around John's imaginary head and heard John's moans instead of his own, causing him to stop, fingers still itching toward his throat.

He'd almost forgotten about the real John, who had now progressed such that he was actually in the shower, actually touching himself, no doubt thinking about Sherlock.  _Oh god_ , Sherlock gulped, sucking deeply on his fingers,  _John_. Thinking about him. Touching himself while thinking about Sherlock. Oh the sight! He wished it was right in front of him, instead of in his mind.

He could imagine, easily, walking through the door of that bathroom, catching John in the act, head thrown back in the spray of the shower, hurriedly pumping himself, desperate for release. And Sherlock would walk right in, wouldn't even hesitate. He wouldn't even remove his own clothing, needing to get to John  _right now_. John would sputter and ask him what the hell he thought he was doing and say he can't just walk in like that, but Sherlock could, at least in his mind. If it weren't for the sheet of plexiglass between them, he would be in that shower right now. And John would sputter and fuss, but he wouldn't say no.

Not, at least, once Sherlock was on his knees, shifting John's hands out of the way and sliding John's rock hard cock into his mouth. And Sherlock would moan (did moan, in fact, imagining it) and John would growl (did growl, Sherlock could hear it in the shower) and arch his back, shoving himself into Sherlock's waiting mouth.

Sherlock would tease, though, just rubbing his tongue along the slit at the tip of John's cock, rotating his tongue around the rough patch of skin at the head. And John would gasp and rock himself forward more, needing more, more of Sherlock's tongue, more of the moisture of his mouth. Sherlock would hum, vibrating around the cock in his mouth as he slid forward, taking more of it in and being thankful he had trained himself to ignore his gag reflex. He'd grip the base of John's dick (he did this with his own now, too) and start to stroke all while forcing the older man down his throat so that he hit the back of it.

"Oh god, Sherlock!" John cried out (was this part of Sherlock's fantasy or a real sound coming from behind the wall of the loo? Sherlock honestly couldn't tell, his body so hyped and his imagination so, so vivid).

In his fantasy, he kept at John, coddling and tugging at his balls and the doctor reached his hands down, twirling his fingers into the detective's curly brown hair and holding the man below him while he thrust roughly into the man's throat. And Sherlock would love it, love the feeling of being filled by John's cock, he'd be salivating and desperate, wanting to taste more and more, wanting John to come in his mouth.

Sherlock would reach his other hand down, grip his own erection through his soaked briefs, stroking and stroking (as he was doing now, lying in the bed) his own release coming closer and closer and  _oh oh_  –

The John in his daydream and the John in real life yelled out simultaneously, a deep, guttural, "Oh yes!" and Sherlock's imaginary mouth filled with come and he drank it down as his own cock pulsed and released into his pants.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, ummm I'm vegan... so the milk for John's tea is soy milk (yes, I know no animals are involved in the production of milk in fiction, but it's the principle of the thing). Not to mention they wouldn't have dairy cows on the island anyway, that's as ridiculous as this whole quarantine scenario has been from the beginning.

It had been several days since  _that night_  – the first night John had ever masturbated thinking about someone who was distinctly and definitely _not_ female. Neither he nor Sherlock had mentioned that night since. The morning after, John had taken his shower as he normally did (though he'd showered - using a loose definition of the word - only 4 hours previously) and Sherlock did the same. They'd looked at each other, tensely, but neither was quite willing to be the first person to speak about it. So it just never came up. John read his book. Sherlock flipped the channels between baseball games and lame crime dramas. It was just like those first days during which they hardly spoke three words.

As far as John was concerned, that was fine by him. He didn't want to talk about it. He didn't have anything to say about it.

That night, leaning against the wall of his bathroom, he had made a decision: masturbating thinking about Sherlock was not, in fact, gay. He wasn't attracted to men, never had been. He'd spent several minutes thinking about all the men he knew, questioning whether he had ever felt a physical connection with them - Lestrade was a nice enough looking man, but no, he didn't stir up any feelings in John; certainly Jim Moriarty had his sex appeal, but no, there was stirring there either. And Mycroft - bleh Mycroft, no definitely not. Not even in the army had a man attracted him. Sherlock, though, was entirely different. John's emotions for Sherlock bubbled up onto his skin and down to his erection every time he thought of him. The feeling was entirely exclusive to Sherlock, so no, John was not homosexual. He was Sherlock-sexual.

And who could blame him? Sherlock was a classic beauty, pale, lean, defined. Michelangelo could not have chosen a better subject to sculpt. And his mind... his mind was like a decorated dagger, beautiful and sharp. Not to mention his sensual voice, his bright eyes (John always imagined them now the way they had been that night, lidded and hazy with desire), his pouty, plump lips, his very talented hands and attention to detail (John could imagine vividly just how useful those qualities could be if they were ever lovers...), not to mention the compassion, sensitivity and blind rage Sherlock could show if he thought John was in danger. It was possessive and domineering and, quite frankly, erotic as hell.

Yes, Sherlock possessed a lot of attractive qualities. It was no surprise, therefore, that after getting to know the man so well, John found himself mildly (extremely) attracted to the detective. That did not, however, necessarily mean he wanted to take part in actual sexual acts with his flatmate. It was one thing to imagine your best friend sucking you off and entirely another for it to actually happen (just the very thought of the possibility becoming a reality caused John to swell to half-mast and he pretended he didn't notice). No, he had no intentions of pursuing a physical relationship with Sherlock.

* * *

Sherlock, for his part - though a difficult part it was - did not say a single word to John about what an utter and complete idiot he was being. The stubborn doctor was clearly dead set on ignoring the obvious - which was that he and Sherlock should do very nasty things to each other when they get out of these cells and leading up to that, there should be lots of gratuitous dirty talk and Sherlock should absolutely, 100% be allowed to watch John Watson touch himself. Or perhaps the plexiglass wall should be removed in its entirety so they could really get to business.

His entire life, Sherlock had not felt more than an inkling of sexual frustration, and now he felt it nonstop. The way John looked at him, askance like he had something to say but was holding his tongue in ( _oh that tongue!_ ); the bare chest he left exposed over night (it was warm in their cells, but still John's nipples hardened such that Sherlock could see them - looked for them, really - even through John's jumpers... thinking of it made Sherlock lick his lips - that so so bad habit of his that John actually seemed to _like_ \- at the thought of running his tongue over them, nibbling them gently or perhaps just a touch too hard); and when he stretched out on his bed reading his book, one knee bed over the edge, god. John was _teasing_  him, Sherlock could tell, even if John didn't realize it.

_Well_ , Sherlock thought,  _two can play that game._

* * *

It was the 15th day of quarantine, _halfway there_ , thought John, relieved. The sooner they were out, the sooner things would be back to normal. Sure, looking at Sherlock now flushed him with heat (seeing that talented tongue dart out of Sherlock's hot and eager mouth), but that didn't mean things couldn't go back to how they were before. In fact, John convinced himself, they were already returning to normal. Except, well, they weren't.

John awoke that 15th day to find Sherlock already up - no surprise there - and, wait, were pigs flying? Was Sherlock... eating? Without having to be reminded and prodded? Surely not. John rubbed his eyes, feeling as though they deceived him, but yes, indeed, there he was with a tray with a jar of peanut butter, a slice of bread and a cup of tea.

"Good morning, John," Sherlock acknowledged him but didn't look up from his breakfast.

John cleared his throat and replied, "G'morning," and rose to get his breakfast from the cell entrance. If Sherlock was going to eat, by god, John was going to eat breakfast with him. For the first time in his life. He lifted the tray, careful not to upset the delicate balance of the tea on the flimsy plastic tray.

Returning to his bed and setting the tray on the table next to it, he turned back to Sherlock, preparing to ask something inane and simple, as was his routine in the morning, but stopped. He even had his mouth open, ready to form words, but absolutely nothing came out.

There, across from him, Sherlock was involved in a very serious oral situation with a spoon covered in peanut butter. He held the spoon with both hands and was licking slowly over its surface, taking in slick dabs of peanut butter, curling his tongue back into his mouth and closing his eyes. He seemed so totally focused and entirely blissed out. He sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, biting it gently and letting out a breathy "mmmm." And John couldn't. He simply  _couldn't_. He couldn't speak, he couldn't think, he couldn't breathe. Sherlock's tongue, teeth, mouth filled his entire mental capacity.

He's never been so thoroughly jealous of a spoon in his life.

Sherlock opened his eyes, looking directly across back at John who quickly snapped his mouth shut with an almost audible clang. His throat was completely dry and he honestly couldn't think of what he had been doing before that moment. Had he been planning to actually speak to Sherlock? Clearly that plan was abandoned. Right, umm, oh tea, yes, that was a good idea. If only he could convince his body to move.  _Just reach forward and grab the goddamn cup,_  John commanded himself, _before you start to look like a damn fool_ , but he was fighting a losing battle there, too. Sherlock could spot a helpless idiot miles away.

"Yes, John?" Sherlock spoke, his voice sensual and deep, like he really was aroused by the spoon.

John cleared his throat,  _now would be a good time to learn to speak, lieutenant_ , "What -" Sherlock parted his lips again as John spoke, slipping his tongue back out and back to the spoon, licking it again, top to bottom, causing John's mind to go blank like some kind of mental eraser. Sherlock paused, cocking his head as he tucked his tongue away again, expectant, "Uhh," John flailed, "Right, um," another throat clearing, "I was wondering what you had planned for the day."

Sherlock's tongue traced over his lips again and he puckered them like he was thinking (or like he was waiting for John to kiss them) and he spoke, "I was thinking about experimenting." He popped the entire bowl of the spoon into his mouth and began suckling on it.

John's eyes were wide, needy, he knew. He felt they might fly out of their sockets, "Experimenting with what?" The doctor couldn't tear his eyes from his flatmate; hadn't yet manage to reach for his cup of tea. He watched the movement of the spoon, a slight up and down motion, as though Sherlock were caressing it.  _With his tongue._  God, if John couldn't just imagine that tongue caressing something else... something attached to him...

Sherlock released the spoon from his mouth with a gentle pop, letting his tongue linger on it as it went, leaving just a trace of peanut butter on his upper lip. He set the spoon back on his tray and stood, untying his robe, shoving his hands into his pockets and strolling what John noticed was a somewhat predatory manner toward the plastic wall between them. He leaned against it, displaying his body for John to see in it's full, daylight enhanced glory, "Oh you know," he said nonchalantly, "Stuff." He spoke this last word with emphasis and a gentle forward body motion that originated just below his waist.

John swallowed thickly. Seeing Sherlock against that glass... it reminded him of  _that night_ , reminded him of stroking his cock and imagining Sherlock's hand and mouth on him. Imagining Sherlock eager on his knees, imagining coming against the back of the detective's throat.  _Fuck._  He was hard now, right now, and so was Sherlock, making his state all the more clear by standing, leaning casually against the plexiglass as though such a wanton erection was  _no big deal_.

John finally picked up the tea to wet his parched throat, adding a dash of soy milk before bringing it to his lips.

"You could help," Sherlock stated just as John started to swallow his first sip of liquid and the doctor sputtered, nearly spitting the tea clear across the room and dropping the plastic teacup.

The doctor took a couple of breaths and collected himself, "Help?" His voice sounded high pitched and frenzied,  _god_ , the things he would help Sherlock with right now... "With what?"

Sherlock looked hopeful for a moment - just a moment, his face lit up like he had a case and he smiled - but it went as quickly as it came, "No, I suppose you better not. It's something I have to do myself, I guess," and he knocked on the wall pointedly with the knuckle of one long finger, "Due to circumstances."

John still wanted to help. Wanted desperately to help.

"Never fear, I can handle it on my own," the detective stated and then, and John would testify to this in court, he winked. Like he was sharing a secret. And he was. "I'll probably be in the loo all day, though." He stood back up straight, off the glass, turning back toward the bathroom.

"Wait, Sherlock," John spoke, amazed at his ability to finally generate words.

Sherlock turned back around, gazing heatedly at him, "Yes?"

"There's some, uh, peanut butter," John replied, pointing one handedly, "Just there, on your upper lip."

Closing his eyes again, Sherlock, slowly, sensually,  _perfectly_ , let his tongue dart out and ran it just across his upper lip and back into his mouth, sucking in the bottom lip again, showing just a touch of teeth and sighing. His eyes reopened, "There, did I get it?"

And John, painfully hard, trying reel in his twitching cock, replied, "Yes, I think so." _Gulp_. What had he gotten himself into?

 


	9. Chapter 9

John had been in a constant state of arousal for nearly 3 days. Every time his erection started to fade, Sherlock managed to find a way to arouse him only further - all without making it appear too intentional.

Six times in the past three days, John had watched - from the corner of his eye - his flatmate strip seductively while changing his clothes. Four times he had watched the constulting detective demonstrate just how talented his tongue was - on spoons, on a butter knife and once on his own finger under the pretense of having cut himself. Sherlock stopped wearing clothing under his robe almost entirely; sometimes he would get dressed (somehow the man made even putting clothing  _on_  look seductive) only to decide later that it was "too hot" and throw his clothes off with wild abandon. Every morning (and night, for that matter) John had listened to his best friend's moans coming from the shower - not to even mention the first day after  _that night_ during which Sherlock experimented with just how many times he could come in one day. He was careful to leave the door open, too.

Honestly, John didn't know what to do. At this point, he was barely functioning, his arousal was so constant, so needy, so intense. And he couldn't relieve himself - Sherlock would know and that would mean he knew he had  _won_. John knew he couldn't give into that.  _He was even gay_ , goddamnit, and even if he did fancy Sherlock (and  _oh yes_ , he definitely did) he still wasn't willing to do anything actually gay with his flatmate. No. Not ever. That would be... well, not good.

But that didn't mean Sherlock wasn't keen on it. In fact, that didn't mean  _John_ wasn't keen on it. John didn't even know what he was keen on any more. His whole body, his mind, everything betrayed him the moment Sherlock flashed him a hint of skin. He might convince himself, late at night while trying to regulate his breathing and ignore the pointed moans from Sherlock's side of the quarantine area, that he wasn't attracted to the detective at all. He would tell himself that it was nonsense (even though he'd reasoned it out soundly several days ago) to be attracted to a person of the same sex because  _he wasn't gay_. God, how many time did he even have to remind himself? It was ridiculous. No, no, this strange infatuation was caused by lack of sex and he ought to think nothing of it because he didn't even like Sherlock that way... right?

Until the next morning, after his shower he walked out to find Sherlock in just his trousers, staring at the mirror in his bathroom. He had his hands on his chest and was running them down it slowly, over his pectoral muscles, hesitating over his nipples then down one, two, three slightly defined abdominal muscles, as if counting them, tracing down to the curve of his hips, where his hands settled. John, still completely nude except a towel around his waist, stood across, staring into the mirror (he could have seen his own face - if it were physically possible to look away from Sherlock - and would not have been surprised to see his mouth agape). Sherlock did not turn around but flicked his eyes up in the mirror to take in John's reaction, "Good morning," he said.

John didn't speak, he just nodded. He couldn't draw his eyes away from Sherlock's firm chest, nipples achingly hard and red, the muscles of his abdomen, the faint dusting of hair that dragged his gaze down and down. What was he doing? He needed to be on the other side of the quarantine cell. He needed to trace his tongue along that chest, lick and bite those pert nipples, suckle and bite Sherlock's neck and leave a mark so obvious no one could mistake the detective belonged to anyone else. Oh,  _fuck._

John, initially immobilized by his desire, found himself approaching the plexiglass. "Want a closer look?" Sherlock asked, his eyes lighting up and his mouth curving into a knowing smile. Moisture had entirely left John's mouth and throat. If, in his lifetime, he had been capable of speech, he certainly didn't remember it now and he nodded again, so succinctly his head barely moved. But Sherlock got the hint; he turned on the balls of his feet, like a ballerina might - because he was just that oh-so-graceful - and faced John against the clear wall. Yes, he was smiling, a dirty, I-know-you-want-me-and-it's-fantastic smile that made John almost hiss with the desire to kiss it. He approached the wall slowly, hands clasped behind his back, stretching his chest forward for the doctor's viewing pleasure.

John swallowed hard and stared straight on, consumed entirely by the desire to grab his flatmate by the shoulders, pin him down and do nasty, destructive things to him - things they would both enjoy. Sherlock was at the plexiglass now, displaying himself before John. His gaze flicked down to John's erection, which was making itself well known under the thin towel, then back to John's face. He licked his lips.

 _Oh god_ , how that fueled John's desire. The things he would have Sherlock do with that tongue...

John studied the detective's body, more closely, like he wanted to. Sherlock did not move, didn't say a word. The detective's chest... well, John knew that chest well. Fantasized about coming on it nearly daily. Hourly. Sherlock's nipples were erect and irritated, as though maybe he'd toyed with them a bit before John finished his shower. John's cock flared with jealousy,  _he_  wanted to toy with Sherlock's nipples.  _He_  wanted to make them rise and inflame, using his hands, his tongue, his  _teeth_. The patch of dark hair running from the center of the younger man's chest was sparse at best. John could have counted each folicle individually, if he'd had the patience. Instead he just followed the trail with his eyes, the little path it made leading him down and across Sherlock's lightly defined abdomen and gently pronounced muscles down to the grooves of his hips. All lines pointed down to where Sherlock.. well, Sherlock was clearly aroused too. John's gaze lingered here. He wondered just how sizable his flatmate was ( _god, what a strange thing to be thinking about your own best friend_ , John thought later, but now... now it just didn't occur to him) and whether or not he could even fit something that size inside him ( _oh god, oh god_ , what an idea... to be buggered by your flatmate... honestly, that sounded quite a bit  _good_ to John though he did not acknowledge this, even to himself). He imagined - just briefly - having Sherlock's cock in his hand, imagined stroking moans out of Sherlock, up and down in a gentle maddening rhythm. He imagined pressing his own cock against Sherlock's, gripping them both slippery together. Oh,  _oh!_ He grunted a little and almost closed his eyes, almost rocked forward with need of it.

The detective was still looking at him, that little seductive half-smile on his lips. Sherlock was never a patient man and he leaned forward just a touch, indicating he intended to speak. But no! John couldn't have that. The younger man had a talented tongue and John had no doubt he could be convinced to break quarantine and get on his hands and knees  _right now_. But that was a terrible idea... wasn't it? Yes, yes of course it was. They only had 11 days left, it would be a waste to spoil it now. Errr no, no that wasn't it... right because John wasn't gay. John couldn't get on his knees and beg to be fucked because  _he wasn't gay_. Goddamnit. Not to mention he rather liked the idea that he would be top, at least every once in awhile.

Ah, fuck, who was he kidding? He was gay as a bloody rainbow unicorn right now.

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak. Oh. No. "This is a bad idea," John blurted out.

The detective closed his mouth. Smiled. Opened his mouth again, "Happy birthday."

"I -" John began. Gaped a moment, "Wh-what?"

"Happy birthday, John," Sherlock had that knowing smile again and his eyes were positively alight with.. well, sin, "You didn't think I forgot?"

John thought a moment. His birthday. Was it his birthday? It was still March, of that he was certain. They'd been in the quarantine 19 days; that would make today... March the 31st. Well. It was his birthday, wasn't it?

"I, umm, thank you." He sputtered out. He'd forgotten his own birthday. Not that he found that surprising, he had been quite distracted afterall. Still was, in fact. Painfully distracted.

"I got you something."

"Wha- what?" Already John could tell this was not going to be his best day for subtleties such as forming complete sentences.

"I packed something for your birthday," Sherlock replied, his voice unusually patient considering he was repeating himself, "I asked them to put it on your tray, it should be there." He indicated the entrance to John's cell.

He should have moved, but he couldn't. The doctor was dumbfounded. Firstly,  _how_  did Sherlock pack something without his knowledge? Secondly, why in the world were they even talking about this when there were  _erections_  to discuss? Thirdly,  _wow_ , Sherlock remembered his birthday. Had the forethought to pack something. John couldn't be sure what it was, but something was swelling up in him. An emotion over this moment... pride? Yes, a little. Excitement? Yes, but that didn't quite fully describe it... Fear? Yes, well, the gift could be anything. Could be a severed foot. Could be a solid gold pocket watch. Could be a gun. You never knew with Sherlock.

 _Honored._ There it was. John felt honored that Sherlock would think of him, would remember his birthday, would care enough to bring something for him. The emotion was bubbling to his skin, he was overwhelmed by it. The knowledge that Sherlock really cared, well... it only served to arouse him further. His cock swelled and spasmed with need and excitement, straining against the towel still wrapped around John's waist.

Right, well. Yes, very good. He cleared his throat, forcing himself not to verbalize the emotion; it would only serve to make Sherlock uncomfortable, "Thank you," He managed to say.

"Well go on," Sherlock indicated the entrance again. John nodded and worked to force his body to move again. It was a bit uncomfortable, his erection bruising against the towel, bobbing between his legs. Painful, but the kind of pain that helped reel him in.

He opened the inner door and retieived the breakfast tray, which seemed quite unusually heavy, burdened with a single medium sized box wrapped in a heavy, textured silver paper with thin bands of ribbon. He set the tray on his bedside table, trying to ignore the pulsating and excitement in his cock. He briefly considered getting dressed before opening the box, but Sherlock was still standing against the wall, staring him down. John fingered the ribbon, "You didn't have to do this, you know," he stalled.

"Just open it," Sherlock drawled, a hint of impatience creeping into his voice.

John sat down, willing his erection to soften, but having a bit of hard luck, so to speak. He lifted the decorated box and already felt as though he were touching the most expensive item in the room. He looked across the room at Sherlock, whose stare was no less pointed. He tugged at the ribbon; Sherlock's eyes were afire with anticipation. John's stomach was a bundle of nerves. There could be  _anything_  in this package. He took a deep breath and began peeling back the paper, revealing a varnished dark cherry oak box underneath. John ran his hands over it, appreciating its beauty and the heady look in Sherlock's eyes as he touched it. He dropped the paper to the ground and inspected the wooden box, taking note of its weight, its craftsmanship, the little hinges on both sides. Slowly, entirely unsure what to expect, he peeled open the doors revealing the most beautifully crafted crystal decanter he had ever seen. Cognac.  _Jenssen Arcana_ , to be specific. John was literally speechless. He touched the bottle gingerly, hardly believing it was real. This... this was entirely impossible. Three hundred bottles  _total ever_ , that's all that was produced of this beautiful liquor. What it must have cost... well, 180£ per ounce, at least. And how did he even... Sherlock had to have gone to France just to purchase a bottle.

John lifted his head, his mouth agape, looking across at his flatmate. Sherlock raised his eye brows, "You like it?"

Speechless. It seemed John would never form words again. How could he express this gift? How could ever show gratitude for a gift like this? "This is the most amazing thing I have ever touched." He said finally and Sherlock beamed.

"Good," Sherlock replied, succinctly, attempting to downplay just how smug he felt, elated that John appreciated his little gesture, "I thought perhaps we'd enjoy a little toast? I brought myself a little something as well."

Sherlock brought himself alcohol? That was something John longed to see, "I'm not sure I could drink this," He replied. Honestly, he couldn't fathom opening it. One of three hundred bottles. _Ever._ Sherlock frowned, and John continued, "Perhaps we should save it for a special occasion?"

"You mean like your birthday?" Sherlock flung back at him as quickly as John spoke the words, as though he'd anticipated it, and John laughed.

"Maybe like getting out of these cells?" John replied, still letting his fingers linger on the glass, still amazed to possess such a thing.

"Certainly. But tonight as well." Sherlock responded and, before John could his mouth to further protest, continued, "I insist, one drink." And turned away before his flatmate could further respond, moving to his dresser and retrieving a pair of trousers.

Oh! John was still naked! He jumped up, closing the box to the Arcana and setting it down gently on his bedside table. He, too, went to his dresser, pulling out pants and trousers.

"John." Sherlock spoke from the other side of the glass as John moved toward his restroom to change. The doctor looked back at his flatmate, who shook his head.

The detective had one eyebrow lifted and a  _really?_  expression across his face and John had to think about that for a moment, his brain sluggish and overwhelmed from the absolute shock of receiving a priceless piece of alcohol history and the dull and throbbing insistency of his arousal.  _Oh,_ it dawned on him. Of course, after this morning, what was the point in John hiding from his flatmate? Didn't Sherlock deserve a bit of a show, anyway, after that beautiful and thoughtful gift? Sherlock ran his tongue across his bottom lip and John cleared his throat. How to proceed...? To say John had never done a sexy reverse-strip tease was an understatement. Until he'd seen Sherlock do that just two days prior (the way he buttoned his cuffs, expertly like he'd been born doing it, even that sent a thrill down the doctor's spine), he'd had no idea such a thing were even possible. Well, John thought, might as well just go for it.

From his side of the quarantine, Sherlock watched hungrily as his flatmate shifted and turned away, but only just, giving the detective a gorgeous back and side view of the soldier. John dropped the towel and Sherlock swallowed hard. He was already needy and stiff, the tension of having been aroused for so long coiling in his balls.

John was using his hips and position to hide his sizable (Sherlock judged based on previous study of tents created in the doctor's trousers and under the towel just now) erection, which the detective supposed should have been endearing or seductive but instead found annoying as he was now more impatient than ever. Sherlock's desire possess his best friend was again coming to the forefront. He wanted John to turn and face him, stroke his own cock and tell Sherlock  _exactly_  how ready he was for this silly quarantine situation to be over to they could get to know each other  _properly._

Of course, that was too much to expect from John - for now.

John started with his pants, a pair of red y-front briefs with white stitching and elastic Sherlock was not familiar with. It wasn't that Sherlock was not attentive to his flatmate's wardrobe – nothing could be further from the truth, if it concerned John, the consulting detective committed it to memory in its entirety – yet somehow these briefs had escaped his record. The doctor had not yet worn these in the quarantine. Perhaps he saved them only for special occasions? And Sherlock could see why; if he had to choose any pants to cover John's tempting body, it would be these. They were a touch on the small side and clung to John's athletic thighs as he dragged them up. As soon as they were on, Sherlock wanted desperately to peel them back off, not that the pants left much to the imagination. They hugged the curves of John's arse, outlined his thick cock. Sherlock was overwhelmed by the need to reach his flatmate, divest him of the undergarment and dig his fingers into the flesh of John's fit buttocks while pulling him hard and close against his own bulging erection. He longed to see bruised outlines of his own fingers peaking out from under the pants.

Biting his lip, John turned to directly face his flatmate ( _finally_ ) and adjusted his cock inside the red pants. As Sherlock suspected – again, he was judging only by outlines in the doctor's clothes, but in this case, very, very tight clothes – John was sizable, not excessively lengthy but _thick_ , and judging by the average depth of the location of the prostate (Sherlock had not yet dedicated any hours of study to determining the exact location of his own, preferring to imagine that John's experience as a physician would prepare him well for the task), girth was more important than length.

With a hiss, John wrapped his hand around his cock and shifted it so it lay flat against his lower abs, the head peaking out just above the band of his too-tight-yet-just-perfect red pants. Sherlock had maneuvered himself back in front of the glass, leaning on it heavily as he stared at the precome glistening on John's exposed member.  _Oh_. Sherlock itched to run his tongue over it, lap up everything John had to offer. He ached to know just how his flatmate _tasted._

The doctor, who had been tactfully avoiding his flatmate's eager gaze, finally looked across the quarantine area only to be overwhelmed by the heat in the detective's eyes. His face was tense, he was panting, unblinking, whole arm pressed against the plexiglass as trying to use osmosis to cross through. Unable to help himself, John's hand lingered over the front of his red pants, just briefly, giving himself a gentle stroke, forcing out a wanton moan-like hiss. Sherlock's own cock leaked and twitched in sympathy, barely restrained by his tight silk pajamas.

John reached next to his trousers, and bent himself over to slide his foot through each trouser leg, exposing Sherlock once again to the curve of his flatmate's arse; the detective counted the freckles on each thigh, imagined laying John down and inspecting every inch of the doctor's body using his fingers, teeth, mouth, tongue.

With a bit of a struggle, John inched the trouser up over his legs while Sherlock watched, enraptured as the bits of pale skin disappeared slowly under khaki cloth. He memorized every motion – he could play it in reverse for himself later – and felt his breath hitch in his throat as his doctor tugged the fabric up and up, over his thighs, pulling at the sides and preparing to connect the button at the middle.

 _Stop,_ Sherlock wanted to say, but he didn't. What would be the point? It was still far too early in the day for his plan to take effect.

John picked up his jumper next, back once again avoid direct eye contact with his best mate, sliding his arms up and into the sleeves.

Again,  _stop_  was on Sherlock's lips, but he said nothing. Instead, as the jumper slid down, covering the last piece of John's exposed skin, the consulting detective leaned away from the glass, made a quick 180 and stalked away silently, retreating to shower and calm himself down.


	10. Chapter 10

By midafternoon, they had started drinking.

John couldn't honestly pinpoint exactly  _why_ they had started so early, but it most likely had to do with the nervous breakdown he suffered directly following the erotic reverse strip tease he'd given his  _best friend_  after which Sherlock promptly  _abandoned him without a single word_.

Yes, that's probably what started it.

Now, John was halfway through a bottle of one of the most priceless liquors in the world (it literally  _tasted_  like gold) and Sherlock was strategically nursing a bottle of Laphroaig 21.

They'd started out decently classy – as classy as possible considering the instruments available to them – each pouring shots into appropriately sized plastic tea cups provided by Parson, but it derailed and spiraled downward rapidly from there, beginning a couple of shots in when Sherlock started taking swigs right from the bottle. John maintained the pretense for a fair bit longer, out of respect for the liquor, before finally resorting to the plastic hotel-esque cups from the bathroom. They were each leaning back, propped up by their pillows on their beds, which they had impatiently maneuvered to face each other when Sherlock had gotten tired of the difficulty involved with sitting up, rehashing the "old days" – their first meeting (the first time they touched), the night they moved in together (the first time they had dinner together), the night at the pool (the first time Sherlock had really feared for John's life), the nights they stayed in that hotel for the Baskerville case (the first nights they had slept in the same room).

John had seen Sherlock drunk – really drunk, not pretending for a case or to get people to leave him alone at a party – only one other time. It had been for a case (of course); they'd gone to a bar to chat up a woman about her ex-boyfriend. Sherlock's plan had been to weep over a single drink, hoping to appeal to her feminine sensibilities such that she would take pity on him and inquire about his woes. He had a brilliant story about a breakup and tragedy lined up and prepared that was certain to require her to respond with a harrowing story about her own romantic adversities. Of course, being Sherlock, he greatly miscalculated the existence and need for "feminine sensibilities" in modern day women. John had watched from afar, chuckling to himself as Sherlock's clever disguise and plot failed spectacularly at catching any woman's attention. It had been John who rescued the powerfully ignorant detective, buying rounds for the whole bar in an effort to "cheer up" his friend. They got the information they needed – after _several_  drinks and plenty of shameless flirting on John's part. Thinking back on it now, it occurred to John that he'd had ample opportunity to go home with that woman. He wondered why he hadn't. Professionalism, perhaps? John laughed aloud at this, no, no that was exceptionally unlike him. He couldn't think of a crime scene where he hadn't chase skirts. Concern for his friend, perhaps? Honestly, John remembered very little from the night overall. He'd woken the next morning on the floor of their sitting room with Sherlock snoring on the couch above him, his arm drooping off it and hand settling on John's chest.

The baseball game was on the telly in the shared space of the quarantine block, but Sherlock reached over an muted it before standing. He was a little shaky, not particularly experienced with the equilibrium (or lack there of) change, "It's hot," he said, his hands out, attempting to steady himself. John, too, stood, thinking Sherlock might need help. For a moment, the detective seemed in control of himself. For a moment, John thought his flatmate could actually walk. But only for a moment.

As soon as he nudged his foot forward to walk, Sherlock's grip on the world slid and so did his body, ungracefully toppling to the floor.

A moment of absolute, resolute silence... before John started laughing. It started quietly then escalated as Sherlock glared at him until he was nearly doubling over from it and, finally, Sherlock, too, began to laugh. His mind was too slowed by the liquor to really question the necessity of laughter when he should have been, in fact, probably a bit hurt – both physically and emotionally. The alcohol dulled both pains, though, and for the moment he cared neither that his knee would bruise or that John was laughing at his misfortune. The doctor, for his part, balanced himself and, with a flare of experience which Sherlock clearly lacked, walked toward his flatmate with the intention of helping him up... only to run smack into the plexiglass wall which separated them.

Now it was Sherlock's turn to laugh, which he did, abundantly and emphatically for a moment before trying to contain himself, "Oh, John," he said, stifling a chuckle, "Did you forget?"

John eased himself to the floor and nodded, "I guess maybe I wanted to." He touched his forehead, wondered if that ought to have hurt. It didn't – though perhaps it would in the morning.

Sherlock sobered quickly, "You alright?"

John nodded in response to the question, but mostly gaped as his flatmate who was now on his hands and knees crawling toward him, a predatory smile on his face. John let out a little whimper and swallowed hard. Suddenly, it seemed the night might go in a different direction.

"Good," Sherlock whispered, so close to the glass now that John could still hear him.

"Maybe we should go to bed," John said, barely above a whisper, too.

Sherlock shook his head. Absolutely not. He did not get this far only to give up, "It's hot." He repeated himself from earlier and moved his hands to the collar of his shirt, preparing to undo the top button.

John's buzzed brain struggled to function against the alcohol and the sheer heady attraction attached to the insignificant motion of Sherlock undoing his buttons, "Wait," he said, needing to think. Were they really going to do this? Was Sherlock really going to do this to him? Strip, get him excited (again) only to be denied by this loathsome piece of plastic between them? Sherlock glared at him, waiting for John's obviously slower brain to catch up and finish that sentence, "If we're going to do this..." John continued and Sherlock cocked his head, he seemed to like where this was going, "If we're going to do this, let's at least play a game."

"A game?" Sherlock replied, not particularly entertained by the idea that he didn't know at all where John was going with this, but then again, he did like games.

"You know, like strip poker or that sort of thing?"

Sherlock's eyes darted away, as if he were popping into his mind palace for a quick visit, searching for files with that label, "Strip..." Sherlock liked that part of the name, "Poker?"

John laughed, "Alright, alright, maybe you haven't heard of that one but," he explained, "It's a game people play when they drink sometimes. It's like regular poker... except you wager clothes instead of money."

Sherlock looked back at him like he was being tedious, "We have no cards, John," he replied and brought his hands back to the button at his throat.

John gulped and desperately wanted to let his flatmate continue with those ministrations, but he put his hand up, touching the plexiglass barrier between them, "Okay, so not poker. But how about this," John watched as Sherlock paused again, interested, "I'll ask you questions – you know, general knowledge questions, things of that nature, if you get it wrong... you remove a piece of clothing. If you get it right... I'll remove one." He gulped, what was he getting himself into? Sherlock raised an eyebrow, he seemed to rather like that idea, "Then you can ask me a question, and vice versa."

This time Sherlock's eyebrows rose incredulously, "I haven't got any general knowledge questions to ask you, John," his voice was a little exasperated. Why this game? Couldn't they just get down to it?

"Then you'll ask me science questions or something, anything you can think of." John was stalling, he knew it, but he wasn't prepared to watch his flatmate strip only inches from him... inches from him without chance of reaching across to touch, more importantly. He wanted to take it slowly. He'd had quite a bit to drink and the booze was still leaking from his stomach into his veins such that he was losing his grip on sobriety more and more though he no longer picked up his glass.

"Very well," Sherlock replied, licking his lips and watching John's eyes catch and follow his tongue. He certainly enjoyed that look on the doctor's face.

John cleared his throat. Right. He should start, shouldn't he? But he couldn't think. Sherlock was doing that thing where he drew all of John's attention to his mouth and tongue, making him think of  _that night_  and imagine the younger man enthusiastically sucking his cock, shooting hot come into the back of his mouth, "Okay yeah..." He tried to cool and clear his brain, "Name the second Lord of the Rings book."

Sherlock paused, entered his mind palace. He was certain John had insisted on conversing with him on this topic multiple times. Lord of the Rings... who even wrote that? Some man from ages ago, no doubt. Sherlock let his mind wander, grabbing the coattails of the John in his mind palace, trying to follow him back to one of those conversations. The word _hobbit_  came to mind, but Sherlock confessed he hadn't the faintest idea what that meant. He had committed every detail of John in its entirety, why not the conversations they'd had?

"Tick tock, Sherlock," John said, giggling at the rhyme, "Can't take all night."

But Sherlock couldn't tell him he had no idea... he had to say something... Oh! There was something, a little something near that word  _hobbit_ , Sherlock followed it greedily. Something about wizards and kings and what toss, John actually cared about this rubbish?

"You don't know," John said, laughing, "We just talked about this just yesterday, haha." It was amazing the details the detective chose to forget and just how rapidly he deleted useless information.

Sherlock frowned. Had they really discussed this yesterday? The only thing Sherlock remembered from the whole day – other than exactly how John looked coming out of the shower with wet hair, the grunting noises he made while doing push ups in the afternoon – was the remarkable three-run homerun during the last inning of the Orioles-Yankees game – ah! John must have been  _reading_  the book yesterday. All he needed to do was bring up an image of the doctor reading and... there it was, "The Two Towers."

John looked taken back; he was honestly shocked, but he nodded, gripping the bottom of jumper, "Amazing," he said, looking still astonished back at Sherlock – as if being able to remember something they discussed yesterday really  _was_ amazing, which it wouldn't be if it were anyone but Sherlock, "Your turn," he smiled at the detective, pulling the jumper off with an unsurprising lack of grace, disheveling his hand and making it staticky. Sherlock almost reached up to sooth it, but remembered the plastic wall and instead sat back, admiring the delicious view of John's trained muscles, his notably erect nipples.

"The four most common elements," the detective said finally.

John almost replied, 'Let our powers combine! Earth! Fire! Wind! Water! Heart!' But he knew Sherlock would not get the reference and it would count against him. Instead, he asked, "On earth? In living things? Or in the universe?"

Sherlock smirked, perhaps a little proud that John thought to ask, "In living things."

John considered biological fact. He was a doctor, surely he knew this? "Carbon." He said, that was an obvious one. Sherlock undid one button, and John gulped, tried not to get distracted, "Oxygen." Another obvious one for which he was awarded with another button popping loose, "Hydrogen." Sherlock freed a third button and pushed the collar apart, exposing the base of his neck and top of his sternum. John swallowed. Tried to wet his parched throat. Considered briefly reaching back to pick up his filmsy plastic cup, "That's cheating." He said, feeling his cock start to swell and wanting nothing move than to reach forward, drag Sherlock across and suck deep kisses onto the man's clavicle, leaving dark bruises along the way. He flexed his hands as they itched to make that little fantasy a reality. Sherlock just smiled at him, waiting for the last element. John racked his brain. This information was in there. No doubt about it. He'd taken chemistry... and he'd listened to They Might Be Giants. "Nitrogen."

Sherlock grinned wider now, a little thrill going through him that John was knowledgeable on this subject, and finished unfastening the buttons on his collared shirt, tugging it loose from his trousers. He let it drape open momentarily, watching John's hungry and admiring gaze, before shrugging it off his shoulders and unceremoniously onto the floor.

Now John was grinning. He could get used to this.

An hour later, John was back to sipping from his plastic travel cup, down to just his red pants and socks; Sherlock had dragged his Laphroaig over to the plastic barrier and fared worse than John – he was now sporting black silk briefs and little else. This was quite an achievement for the doctor since Sherlock began the game wearing the most clothing out of the two. They were still laughing, still marveling at the other's ability (or inability) to remember mundane facts. It did not escape John's notice that Sherlock's ability to recall facts he closely associated with John – the order of the planets, the important aspects of rugby, the lyrics to Bohemian Rhapsody – was significant compared to that of his ability to remember ordinary innate facts – like the name of the current prime minister, the year of the moon landing, the titles of any Clint Eastwood movies whatsoever.

It did not escape Sherlock's notice that clearly John spent a little too much time watching daytime telly and had perhaps been peeking at the write ups of Sherlock's latest experiments. Still, he was laughing and removing his clothing willingly, feeling, for the first time, his glee over this situation to be socially acceptable – he knew it was because when he smiled, admiring John's bare chest, the doctor did not tell him it was a "bit not good."

It was John's turn to ask a question, but now he hesitated. Sherlock's swollen cock was poorly hidden within the folds of his silk pants. Part of John wanted him desperately to expose it – a massive portion of his mental capabilities (what remained despite the booze) was taken up imagining it; imagining running his hand over Sherlock's cock, teasing and testing to hear what sort of noises the detective might make and determine exactly how long could the virgin last under John's practiced hand. Part of him was frightened – this was already the gayest thing he'd ever done... could he handle moving any further? Part of him was frustrated – Sherlock had no qualms about exposing himself right here, right now, but what good would it do either of them? There was still the matter of the plexiglass to consider...

Perhaps he could ask a question Sherlock was sure to get wrong? But even then, it would be only 3 turns before John, too, would have to reveal himself. He knew he had nothing to be embarrassed about – he'd been blessed to be well-enough endowed – but part of him worried... Sherlock obviously seemed to think this is what he wanted... but he was inexperienced, how could he know? John might make the final leap only for Sherlock to realize this wasn't what he wanted. That he wasn't really interested in sex, afterall. John knew he couldn't handle that kind of rejection. Not tonight.

Sherlock interrupted his reverie by clearing his throat. His eyes darted from John's face, eyes, lips, to his center then back and down again, lingering on John's tight red birthday briefs. He was eager and ready for the next question, whether or not he already plotted to get it wrong regardless, John couldn't tell. He did look mischievous enough, though. Smirking like he knew something John did not – which was no doubt true.

John opened his mouth, though he wasn't certain that he'd made any sort of decision –

The room became suddenly darker. John looked around, and Sherlock sighed. The cells had automatic lights active since the 5th day of quarantine when Parson realized Sherlock would never sleep – and therefore never let John sleep – unless someone turned off the lights to prevent him from continuing his experiments. John couldn't believe it was 10pm already. Had they really been drinking for seven hours? One look back at his bottle confirmed this to be the case.

"We should get to bed." He said, trying not to look Sherlock in the eyes, knowing what he'd fine there.

"I'm not tired," came the reply.

"You're never tired," John chuckled, ignoring Sherlock's did-you-really-just-suggest-I-walk-away-from-this stare, "But we've been drinking for hours. We should sleep it off."

"I'd rather not." Sherlock said, still taking in John's general state of undress, eyes lingering at the doctor's feet as though the very idea of socks created in him a very real sense of personal wrong. John leaned forward onto his wrists, categorizing the stiffness and pain in his joints from such a lengthy time spent seated on the hard floor, "No," Sherlock interrupted, "Please don't."

That caused the doctor to raise an eyebrow and look up at his flatmate, did Sherlock just... beg? John thought he could get used to that, "Come on, you git, we're both too old to be crouching on this floor. I'm not saying we should sleep, but we should at least move to the beds." John almost forgot to include the plural... he wanted them both to come back to the same bed. Sherlock stared back silently for what seemed longer than necessary or normal – perhaps his brain function was slowed still from the alcohol? They had by no means suspended their drinking, and Sherlock wasn't exactly an experienced drunk. He seemed pensive and unsure. John wanted to help the detective up, he wanted to stroke his face and reassure him it was okay – he wasn't abandoning him, he just wasn't ready to go this far – yet.

Sherlock looked up at his best friend who was attempting to stand, balancing one hand on the plastic barrier. Clearly, John meant to resist the final piece of the "get naked" plan. Perhaps Sherlock was rushing this? Perhaps he expected too much, too quickly? He should have been thrilled John had moved past his fear of homoeroticism at all – enough, even, to expose himself down to his briefs – but what did Sherlock do? He pushed too hard, like always, he wanted and wanted and took and took without consideration for his flatmate's emotional struggles. What an unadulterated arse he was. Finally, having processed this and begun to feel the guilt creeping in, Sherlock nodded, leaning forward, too, to brace himself against the plastic structure to aid his attempt to stand. As he touched the glass, he felt a palpable jump, as if it were electrified and he directed his vision to where his hand contacted the plastic, then up to meet John's stare.

They were touching again. Via the glass. The connect was live again. Sherlock felt a current passing from him to John and back. It electrified him. He wanted to press through it, press through the polymer, press into John. He wondered now just what the doctor  _felt_ like. He was warm, Sherlock could sense that much easily through the barrier. Was he soft? Was he calloused? Were the tiny scars visible on his chest, abdomen, waist merely visual or did they possess depth? As he rose, Sherlock moved his face closer to the glass. John did the same.

John was staring into his flatmate's wide eyes. He'd seen this look before – this look of total surprise. He wondered idly what he'd done this time to deserve the  _John-you've-amazed-me_ face, but he didn't ask. It was probably one of those  _acting-like-a-totally-normal-human_  moments which Sherlock found bizarre and exciting, like they were a rare treat for him to comprehend. John didn't need to understand what Sherlock saw in him to appreciate that look on his face. That stare went straight to his cock which pulsed suddenly, causing his red pants to now seem just a bit  _too_  tight. He considered rearranging himself, but decided the pressure was better. Helped keep him grounded.

He looked at the spot where his hand met Sherlock's against the glass. The warmth he associated with  _that night_  was back and he was afraid to walk away, afraid to feel that sense of being disconnected like he had  _that night_  when he'd first tried to go back to bed. He realized now, though, that it wouldn't go away. He and Sherlock were not disconnecting; they probably never would again.

Wow. John could hardly believe this was real. Was he really standing against a piece of plastic, feeling so in tune and connected to his flatmate? Had he really stripped for and watched his best friend strip? Was he really feeling this desire for Sherlock? Did Sherlock feel it too? Was he really attracted to John? Was he even capable of lust? The doctor took this moment to flick his eyes downward, glancing over Sherlock's boxers. The head of his flushed and ready cock peeked out of the slit in the silk. Oh. John swallowed, averted his eyes. Yup, this was real. And Sherlock really was attracted to him, he needed no other data to determine it.

John cleared his throat, "Right, back to bed for both of us." He said, wanting to sit for a bit, really think about what was happening. Decide if he was ready for this. Decide if he – or Sherlock, for that matter – could go through with all this really meant.

Sherlock nodded, looked away, pulled his hand back from this glass. He'd  _felt_  something just now, with his hand pressed against John's while the doctor looked him over. It was a strange warmth, and his body seemed to associate it exclusively with John. It made him want to smile, and when he tried to examine it closer, it wiggled from his grasp. It felt  _good_ but that did not give reason for its existence.

Oh well, he'd have to consider it further in the morning. When he was sober, perhaps.

He watched John turn and walk to the head of his bed, all the while the consulting detective felt the nagging sensation of guilt as it combined with the lingering warmth from his earlier, unknown emotion. He was reminded that they were getting into bed because  _he_  had pushed John too far. Again. And he couldn't even blame it on the inebriation, though he'd like to. No, he was not desperate and overbearing because his pleasure centers were inflamed and his inhibitions watered down by drink; he pushed and pushed because it was in his nature to get what he wanted. Through manipulation and force. John had only just recognized his ability to be attracted to a male, and here Sherlock was getting him drunk and taking advantage.

For the first time in his life, Sherlock felt real and honest shame. He longed for his previous emotional imperviousness.

He moved quickly back to his bed and willed his erection to fade. His booze-addled brain, however, supplied instead a BAFTA worthy motion picture of John's earlier reverse strip tease. Beginning and lingering, of course, on the moment John first dropped his towel. Shelock released an audible groan and felt his temperature rising. His desire to touch himself, touch  _John_ , increased accordingly. Next, his mind recreated his fantasy from days ago, bringing a now even more detailed vision of John touching himself. He imagined, for a flickering second, John coming on his chest. He could feel the sticky warm sensation as if it had really happened, and he wanted nothing more than to know exactly how accurate that sensation was.

Oh god.

Sherlock's mind, which had always been his refuge and savior, was now punishing him.

From his side of the cell, John had his own problems. He was painfully erect to begin with and then Sherlock  _moaned_  like he was imagining something delectable and there was no way John couldn't adjust himself now, with his cock twitching and all but  _leaking_. He swallowed heavily as he reached under the band of his pants, touching his cock lightly, accidentally brushing over the tip and almost coughing from the sudden burst of pleasure. He cleared his throat.

"Sherlock."

Oh god. How could one word sound so seductive? Sherlock stopped moving. Stopped breathing. Stopped thinking. John's voice was so deep, so tight, the arousal practically dripped from the word. Perhaps Sherlock  _hadn't_  pushed too far. Not yet. "Yes, John?"

"Would you..." John was speaking slowly, whether overwhelmed by drink or heady with lust, it was difficult to tell, "Describe it to me?" He finished finally, each word coming out a little quieter than the last, as if he wasn't quite comfortable with what he was asking... like he was  _embarrassed._

Perhaps, in this case, Sherlock did find that a bit endearing – the way John said "it," like he couldn't actually speak the words. Sherlock smirked, he knew what John was asking, and oh yes, he was going to do it. He was going to describe to John just what he planned to do to him when they got out of these cells.


	11. Chapter 11

"I'd pin you down." There was no mistaking the audible intake of air from John's side of the room - he didn't hate the idea, "Have to, really," Sherlock continued, "I do like to be _thorough_ , and I couldn't when you're so  _reactive_ ," John did not need to ask how Sherlock could assume such a thing - that he would be hypersensitive to a single touch from his flatmate - but of course, the detective knew him well. "With you naked and open to me like  _that_ ," the word  _vulnerable_  was unspoken but floating in the air, "It'd be difficult to decide where to begin, though I suppose I'd start with your shoulder - with the scar," as Sherlock spoke, John reached his opposite hand up and touched the wound gingerly, trying and not finding it too difficult to imagine it was Sherlock touching him. "I want to explore it, John," Sherlock's voice barely hid his enthusiasm at the idea, "I want to run my tongue over it, learn its dimensions,  _memorize_ it."

Really  _thank it_ , if Sherlock was honest, thank it properly for bringing John home to him.

Sherlock paused, pursed his lips and licked them greedily. From the other side of the cell, John swallowed loudly.

"I'd stretch my hands across your chest. My hands are cold, but I think you'd like that," and John nodded, agreeing silently. There was no doubt the chill of Sherlock's naked hands would get a literal rise out of him - John had always been hyper sensitive to the cold, even more so since Afghanistan. "And I'd work my way up to your mouth, slowly - or perhaps I wouldn't? It's so difficult to tell. I've never been a patient man, and the idea of invading your mouth is such a tempting one..."

Invading. John's heart skipped a beat and then sped up.

"It's difficult to tell if you'd want something romantic or rough - you can be both sometimes, you know - but like I said, patience has never been among my virtues, few that I have, and I doubt I'd take much concern for your desire for romance," Sherlock paused, breathed, imagined. He rested his hands against his abdomen. Contemplated touching himself... but no, that would be a distraction. Instead he felt himself breathe, felt the gentle lifting and shifting of his muscles and listened for John across the room.

John, for his part, was exactly and 100% still. He couldn't even be certain how he wasn't gasping for air, he seemed to be hardly breathing. Had he asked for this? Had he asked for these intense moments, to be imagining exactly how Sherlock would approach this? Scientifically, carefully yet with the same strange wild abandon and disregard with which he approached every aspect of his life.

"I wonder, sometimes," Sherlock continued, "About the warmth of your skin. I've touched you, of course," He could in fact recall, in detail, every single skin-to-skin touch the two men had ever had, from the single touch every day as John handed him his tea before they came to the island to the accidental touches involved with John passing Sherlock his cell phone as required. "But you're always so much warmer than I am. You're like a kettle that's been left on low all day." He paused, "You're not particularly well insulated... with adipose, I mean. Just muscle. Hard muscle I think I'd like explore, since I doubt it is particularly conducive to transferring heat like you do. I'd like to get to the bottom of that mystery." He let the word  _mystery_ hang, like perhaps John was an important and thoroughly vexing case, then suddenly, as if hit by a fresh wave of enthusiasm, began to speak quite rapidly, "Where do you think you are the most sensitive, John?" It was a rhetorical question and there was no pause, "Your throat, perhaps? Or the spot just below your Adam's apple where it connects with your sternum? That little hollow there where the skin is so thin and vulnerable?" John whimpered, imagined the vibration of Sherlock's speech against his throat where - if not for that cockblocking plexiglass wall - he would certainly be able to feel it, "I wonder how it would react under my breath. Or my tongue."

The word "tongue" had John struggling to maintain air in his lungs. It seemed to be the only thing he could think of, it filled his mind with images he'd first fantasized of on  _that night_. And of course, he could remember quite vividly just how Sherlock's tongue looked as it snuck out his mouth and ran seductively across his lips.

"Hmm, perhaps that isn't it. You nipples, then? I've seen them in the cold air of the cell at night... erect and wanting. Imagine how they'd feel under my hands... then in my mouth. The sensation of the cold and the heat would be at such  _odds_ with each other, John."

John's breath was ragged, and Sherlock's voice was dropping lower, slowing again and dragging with lust.

"I'd  _have_ to bite them, you know, I'd have to gauge your reaction to it," He somehow made this sound very important to the scientific community. It was a need-to-know, by Sherlock's standards, "And you'd like that, of course, you like a rough touch now and then. And I couldn't stop there... I'd need to run my fingers down those muscles of your abdomen... Are they firm, John? I see you flexing them when you train in the afternoons..." He paused, hesitant, "I wonder, sometimes, what your sweat tastes like. And I wish I was the one causing you to sweat." He let that statement hang there. Let John take a moment to recognize just how long and how often Sherlock had thought about this.

"You might think that because I am moving lower that I'd be ready to reach for your cock, but.. no, I have to really examine your whole body - otherwise the experiment would hardly count. You cannot have incomplete data and reach any sort of practical conclusion. I wouldn't discount your feet, either. As a doctor you are no doubt well aware of the heightened sensitivity at the arch of the foot, it can be ticklish, yes, but it can also sense pleasure. And we are, afterall, searching for your  _most_  sensitive part..." He lingered over the word 'part,' "but no, that isn't it either. Your ankles? No doubt they are sore now from our stint on the floor earlier. If I were a kinder man, perhaps I'd massage them for you, but I'm not really interested in that," Sherlock was speaking clinically now, and that shouldn't have been a turn on... but then again, John was a doctor, "I'd follow your tendons upward, I'd test the strength of your calf muscles, I want to inspect them for damages... the limp was psychosomatic but there was a real wound there long ago... is there a scar? It is difficult for me to tell... when I'm remember the facets of your body... I get  _distracted_ ,"

John was gripping himself, firmly. It was the only way he could keep himself grounded. The briefs he wore were too tight and he'd slid them down to free himself. He wanted desperately to stroke himself but to do so would be to acknowledge this proxy (if you could call it that) fantasy Sherlock was having about him... and that he had asked for it. That he wanted it. That he wanted to hear more of it. And part of him - not a very small part - wanted Sherlock to tell him what to do. He wanted Sherlock to instruct his motions - and he had no doubt that Sherlock would oblige. He heard Sherlock swallow. Each sound was magnified despite the plastic wall. He let out a moan which John almost replicated. He could imagine vividly Sherlock adjusting himself, resting his palm against his cock but trying not to let himself get distracted.

"The inner thigh must be a sensitive place," Sherlock continued, voice low and heady, "All covered up and hardly exposed to the elements in a buttoned up culture like ours... You're pale there, I know from your little performance this morning... honestly," He said, like an aside, "It's all I've thought about all day..." He let this sentence sit out apart from the others then continued, "I could have seen your veins, I think, had I been concentrating on that at the time," He paused and John swallowed thickly, moving his hand up and down in one quick stroke, hissing out at the sensation and picking up some sticky wetness from the precome he was leaking. It felt so good, and he wanted to keep going -

"Stop that, John," Sherlock's voice was firm and quiet.  _Busted,_ thought John, "I can't concentrated when I know you're already starting. I'll tell you when you're allowed to touch yourself." John stopped.  _Fuck_. Sherlock telling him what to do shouldn't make him flush with need and his cock pulse but, well, John hadn't joined the army because he hated taking orders.

Silence hung in the air for a full minute as if Sherlock were double checking to be certain John was following his direction, then continued, "Pale skin shows bruises so easily. How hard would I have to suck to mark your thighs with little contusions? I want to leave little reminders on you for later... for when you're alone again in the shower, make you think of me. I could probably even leave a handprint or two, with a firm enough grip," He paused, wet his throat, "And you'd like that... being marked by me. Maybe I'd leave bruises higher... on your hips. At the base of your neck. The spots where your throat connects with your clavicles on either side..." He lingered on these words, dropping each one carefully like he was slowing to a halt, like he was approaching something.

"You can touch yourself now, John."

The doctor was hesitant, though, he wanted to be certain he was permitted. Sherlock paused, as if waiting. Finally, John reached back down and wrapped his fingers gingerly around his cock, waiting for further instruction.

"Rub your thumb over the head, John," Sherlock's voice was so low now, so deep, it seemed to come from the base of his spine. It caused a little rumble in his lungs, a burning in his throat. As he instructed John, he mirrored his own directions,

He sucked in a heavy gasp of air and heard John do the same as they both felt a heady rush of pleasure, coating their thumbs in their own sticky precome, "I want you to imagine it's me touching you," he said, and John had absolutely zero trouble doing just that, "Imagine me stroking you slowly from base to tip, my hand slick with your precome..." he trailed off momentarily, gingerly touching his own cock, stroking from base to tip in mirror to the instructions he gave John, "I wonder what you taste like," He stated finally, "Honestly, my curiosity over it is borderline unhealthy. I've never wanted to taste something quite as much as I've wanted to taste you. When I get myself off, I think about doing it with you in my mouth -"

To his surprise, John interrupted him here, choking out the words, "Oral fixation," he said in an almost whisper followed by a gasp as he gently squeezed the tip of his cock which leaked appropriately to the motion.

Sherlock smirked, "Yes, I suppose that's part of it. Or perhaps just a John-fixation because I believe the fixation transcends just the oral stage." He paused, let John think momentarily on the other psychosexual development stages before continuing, "You can't pretend you don't think about it... that the idea of me sucking you off -" At this, both he and John began more rapidly stroking, "That the idea of coming in my mouth hasn't occurred to you," Each word was punctuated by a hasty breath as if Sherlock were returning from a long chase during a case, "I see it in your eyes every time I lick my lips... God, I love that look you give me…" He trailed off, suddenly distracted by the intense desire to fill his mouth with his own fingers again, though he resisted, "Of course, I'm not particularly experienced in that area, as you've probably guessed. I'm a fast learner, though, and no doubt I could count on your steady instruction."

John gasped audibly at the idea; he couldn't deny the possibility of educating Sherlock in the art of fellatio had its merit. He rubbed the palm over the head of his leaking cock, slicking it with precome and imagining Sherlock's hot breath on him—he attempted to suppress a moan that force its way out at the idea.

"No," Sherlock hissed, "I want to hear you. Don't hold back."

It was a difficult direction to follow, but John hadn't come this far to start ignoring Sherlock's commands. He let his body take over for a moment, sliding his hand up and down his shaft, unable to stop his body from bucking upward into the motion. He could hear Sherlock's breathing from the other side of the cell, heavy and lacking a steady rhythm.

"Are you thinking about coming down my throat, John?"

Oh  _fuck_ , that sounded nice and John barely managed to grunt a reply as his need for it was rising, all his muscles tensing.

"I think about it sometimes. Sometimes I suck on my own fingers, I imagine it's you… I imagine what it would feel like to have you hitting the back of my throat. I have no gag reflex you know…"

Fuck, fuck,  _fuck_. John swallowed thickly, "Do it." He managed to cough out.

"Hmmm?" Sherlock replied, feigning some kind of innocence.

"Suck on your fingers. Do it." John's voice was breathy and low, but Sherlock heard the instruction well enough. He brought his free hand to his mouth and licked two of his fingers, slowly, the image of doing this same motion against the underside of John's cock filling his mind, then shoved them into his mouth greedily. His moans were muffled, but John could hear them, and he began to fuck his own fist with renewed vigor. On his side of the quarantine, Sherlock was doing the same. The strokes of his hand over his own flushed cock increased in both speed and firmness. "Oh god, Sherlock," John murmured between harsh intakes of breath, " _Fuck_ ," he said, feeling tightness and warmth building still to an unsustainable level, "I'm going to come. Oh god… you too?" He couldn't form complete sentences, "Want to hear you…"

Sherlock grunted a definitive, "yes" around his fingers and listened to the movements of John's body, the rustle as he bucked up into his firm grip. Sherlock could feel himself, knew he was close. Strange, a few days ago, he was completely unaware of what his own orgasm felt like. And now he could accurately predict and even force it.

" _Fuck_ ," John repeated, "Sherlock, I'm coming." And he did, the power of his orgasm rocking over him with such force, he felt for a moment as if his ears were filled with cotton or he were underwater, nothing but the sensation of pleasure from his release and the strangled cries of Sherlock, too, reaching his peak pierced the thick cloud of bliss surrounding him.

As they both came down from the incredible – slightly drunken, still, John realized – high of their orgasms, nothing could be heard but the labored breaths of both parties, but eventually even that stopped as their bodies shifted back down to lower gears.

Silence.

 _Well, this could get awkward_ , John thought. He wondered if Sherlock would say something, but after a few minutes, the detective appeared to be still speechless.

Sherlock, for his part, was clutching his chest in fear. John hadn't said anything since their simultaneous release, and Sherlock felt immobilized, dreading his negative reaction. It was one thing to fantasize about your flatmate. It was quite another (very gay) thing to get off with him.

"Sherlock," John's voice sounded rough and harsh in the silence, and Sherlock released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He wondered if John intended to complete a sentence after that or if he was waiting for Sherlock's reply – "Thank you." He said finally.

Sherlock didn't know how to reply. It hardly seemed appropriate to say, "You're welcome," but what else was there? Instead he opted for an affirmative grunt before standing wobbly – oh the effects of alcohol, how had he forgotten? – and marching into his separate bathroom to clean himself off and think.


	12. Chapter 12

The next morning, John was sick.

God, he was so fucking sick, he didn't even check Sherlock's side of the quarantine cell before emptying the contents of his stomach – mostly cognac – into his toilet.

Why, god, _why_  had they drank so much? John normally drank on his birthday but, god, not like this. His head was pounding. The lights – were they even on? Or was that the light from the skylight? Fuck, the lights were too bright and the room was too hot and, god, he was going to be sick again.

His abdomen felt tight and gross,  _eww_ , did he fall asleep with come on him? He turned the shower on extra cold and hopped right inside. It felt like the icy pits of hell, but still so, so good. He let his head tip back into the spray, closing his eyes.

Holy hell, did he wank with Sherlock in the room last night?

Did Sherlock also wank with John in the room last night?

Did Sherlock really talk about sucking John off?

Did John really tell him that he wanted that?

Fuck.

John leaned back against the wall of the shower. Last night… well, um…

No. That must have been a dream. A very vivid dream brought on by the consumption of far too much alcohol.

Except, well, the evidence had been there this morning, hadn't it? In the form of dried come on his stomach. How many ways could that have gotten there?

Fuck.

And John wasn't even gay.

Or was he now? Did one night of drunken almost-debauchery make a person gay? John shook it off. It didn't matter. Whether or not he's been secretly gay his whole life or even if he's been Sherlock-sexual (and surely such a thing must exist) was pretty much the least of his concerns right now.

Unless he really wasn't gay and this attraction to Sherlock was caused by lack of sex and lots of pent up sexual frustration partially correlating with the apparent lack of women on this island. In which case his questioning sexuality probably just destroyed the most important relationship in his life.

Fuck.

* * *

Sherlock woke to the sound of John closing the door of his bathroom – a bit too loudly, in Sherlock's opinion – and he felt… fine. Yeah, totally fine. He'd expected to experience some alcohol-related unpleasantness, especially considering the quantity of alcohol he'd consumed. Though Sherlock had never experienced it himself, there was plenty of data to confirm the "hangover" illness associated with heavy alcohol consumption. Perhaps the effects of this were greatly exaggerated? Sherlock wondered as he catalogued the sensations throughout his body. He mostly felt… normal. A bit weary from lack of sleep and quite a bit like he needed to pee, but otherwise perfectly well and healthy. He sat up, perhaps a bit too quickly because his vision began to spin and he felt a bit dizzy. He held his head with his hands, pressing his fingertips gently against his temples, trying to calm the uncomfortable vertigo.

Finally, when he felt sorted enough to walk, he stood and attempted to walk toward his separate bathroom, but the dizziness returned. Irritated by his apparent inability to make sudden movements, he closed his eyes and hummed a little melody, waiting for his equilibrium to settle.

It took him longer than strictly necessary to reach the toilet, and by the time he did, he felt a bit nauseous, a little clammy and, ugh, was he sweating? He retched involuntarily over the toilet, but, despite the taste and sensation of bile at the back of his throat, produced nothing. He took in several shaky breaths before being able to stand well enough to piss, which he did quickly before turning on the shower, ice cold.

The water felt nice, if a bit like freezing rain mixed with daggers. It was just what he needed to clear his mind which felt dusty and not entirely unlike the way he felt when coming down from a bad trip.

He dropped his head, letting the chilly water stream down his spine and the numbing sensation distract him from the categorically undeniable fact that he and John had a sexual near-encounter last night.

Sherlock's  _first_  sexual encounter.

A part of him was a little terrified by this fact – he put almost no stock whatsoever in the concept of "innocence" or "virginity" but his lack of experience was nonetheless obvious and unavoidable. What had emboldened him to behave the way he did? To speak to John the way he had? Could he blame this on the alcohol? He longed to – he'd seen people do many foolish things while inebriated; he himself had exhibited some strange behaviors while under the influence of cocaine – but he felt quite certain he could have stopped himself the night before, if he had wanted to.

Perhaps, then, it could be blamed on the strange and sudden desires his body was exhibiting. His libido had never been an active one, but now that it was, he felt an almost insatiable fascination with John's body. Even thinking about it in the freezing chill of the shower made his blood rise, and he forced himself to take deep, shallow breaths. He'd seen people do many illogical and intense things when consumed by lust or desire. He just never thought he'd be guilty of doing the same.

* * *

Sherlock didn't know what he expected to see when he finally exited his bathroom, but John Watson sitting with his head in his hands, looking rather despondent was not it. Or at least, it wasn't what he  _wanted_  to see. He permitted himself to hope for nearly 6 seconds that perhaps John was not angry or a bit regretful about the night before. But Sherlock was a rational man. He opted for a preemptive strike approach, "John, about last night –"

John lifted his head to look across the cell at his best mate. God, he couldn't deal with this right now. Not at least without a few more hours of sleep and a healthy dose of tea and paracetamol, "Sherlock," He interrupted, "Can we just…" He sighed, covered his face with his hands and drew them across his eyes, "Discuss this later?"

Sherlock swallowed hard, made a little strangled noise with his throat that he could only guess at its meaning.

John shook his head wearily, "Listen, it's not… I mean, it's okay, I just…" He frowned, he didn't want to anger Sherlock or give him the impression that he regretted the night before – which even John didn't know for sure himself if he did or didn't yet – "I just need to get a little more sleep, okay?"

Sherlock felt as if his vocal cords were stuck together – he could not wring a single sound from them for nearly thirty seconds. But across the way, John was grimacing. He was only just hiding his distinct "a bit not good" face behind his hands, and Sherlock felt suddenly very tense and a little icy. Oh, right. Of course. Sherlock was too late, John was already regretting the night before. He just didn't want to hurt Sherlock's  _feelings_. Ugh, how ridiculous. As if Sherlock had any, he huffed, "Of course." He replied, curtly without even a hint of malice.

John cringed at Sherlock's voice – it sounded a bit loud, a bit wounded and quite a bit defensive. John sighed.  _Great_ , just what he needed – a hangover and a grumpy detective. "Sherlock, listen, I'm not –"

Sherlock cut him off, "No, really. It's fine," – somehow the word "fine" came out sounding the opposite – "We should both get more sleep. There's no reason to discuss it any further."

John sighed even heavier. Right, well, there was arguing with him when he was in this state, and John really  _was_  tired, "Fine." He spat back (if it came out a bit bitterly, he could hardly be blamed) before lowering himself to his bed and turning his back to his flatmate.

 _Well_ , that settled that, Sherlock thought. He stormed to his bed and sat, leaning his elbows on his knees and resting his face in his hands staring directly at the back of John's skull as if he might deduce the doctor's thoughts by counting the strands of hair on his head.

But John didn't shift or even turn around. It was as if he was totally unaffected by the weight of Sherlock's pointed stares, which was quite tedious, Sherlock thought, so he stood instead and started pacing. Obviously he had no reason to sleep – that was ridiculous. He clasped his fingers at the small of his back and dug his fingernails into his flesh. His mind was racing and he wished he'd brought some nicotine patches (they couldn't survive the hot water bath but a man could dream, couldn't he?). The craving for cigarettes was so strong, it made his teeth hurt. If he'd had a pack, he'd have smoked them two at a time.

Well.  _Well._  Fine. That was just  _fine_ , Sherlock thought as he paced, picking up his speed and flexing his fingers – he would trade his left fifth metacarpal for a single nicotine patch – it was probably better this way, anyway. It was ridiculous, the whole notion of him and John. He didn't have time for such nonsense; he couldn't possibly invest in a relationship. He was a sociopath! It was an impossibility. And not to mention impractical. He couldn't spend all his time thinking about John's tight glutes, defined pectoral muscles gleaming with sweat in the afternoon sun during a workout, his laugh when Sherlock surprised him or,  _gulp,_  his thick cock down Sherlock's throat. No. Of course he couldn't develop romantic or sexual attraction for his flatmate; that would interfere with  _the work_.

And god forbid if they faced an adversary like Moriarty again – Sherlock couldn't bear to be compromised by some kind of misplaced sentiment.

His gait slowed, finally, as the brightness of the room started to wear at his eyes and the muscles on his right side felt a bit sore. Maybe John was right about one thing – they both needed more sleep.

* * *

After a while, John heard Sherlock's pacing slow, then stop completely. Well, that was a mercy. But was it a good sign? Pacing meant thinking, and it was no great leap to guess what Sherlock's thoughts had turned to. And now the pacing stopped, so a conclusion had been drawn, but would John like the result?

Part of him ached to turn over, to say to Sherlock:  _stop worrying. I'm not mad at you. I'm still in love with you. I still want all those things I wanted last night._

But another part of him wondered still… did he really want those things? When he'd seen Sherlock this morning, he felt no desire to beg for fellatio. Maybe last night had done the trick and he had… gotten it out of his system? Then again, the idea of even  _standing_  made him feel sick ten minutes ago. He doubted even a porn star could have roused him to action without a proper nap.

He closed his eyes – he'd have to think about this later. He was just too tired.

Except, he couldn't sleep for shit. His mind was racing faster than Sherlock ever paced and he couldn't help agonize over every word he'd spoken this morning. Sherlock probably thought John was angry or uncomfortable about the night before, and he wasn't – he really wasn't. He was just so,  _so_  confused. He wanted to talk to someone, get a little advise - but person he would have asked was sulking on his bed on the other side of the quarantine cell, probably with a broken heart.

 _Way to go, lieutenant,_ he thought,  _now you've really fucked up_.

* * *

John jolted awake to the sound of loud clanging and reached for his gun, preparing to set a defensive – oh, right. Quarantine. Not Afganistan. He shook himself out of his reverie and stood to get a better look across the cell, "Sherlock?" he asked tentatively.

The detective's goggle-clad head popped up from behind his bed, "Hmmm?"

"Where did you get the…" John began then shook his head again, of course Sherlock packed goggles without his knowledge. Or maybe he conned one of the island researchers into lending him a pair, "What are you doing?"

"Experiment."

John sighed, "Yes, I can see that, but on what?"

"The effects of alcohol on various organic and non-organic materials."

He said this as if it were  _obvious_ , which make John grip the bridge of his nose, "Underneath your bed?"

"Obviously."

 _Patience_ , John reminded himself, he's seen this all before, "Why, exactly?"

Sherlock's upper lip twitched, "Well, I needed to do something with the remaining whiskey."

Right, of course. Why hadn't John thought of that? "Okay, well… I'm just going to take another shower."

He heard Sherlock make a noncommittal grunt as he leaned back under the bed.

 _Lovely_ , John thought,  _I've broken Sherlock_.


	13. Chapter 13

Three days later, they still hadn’t broached the subject – not for lacking of trying on John’s part. But every time he started with, “Sherlock, about the other night –“ the detective cut him off with mutterings about “experiments” and _can’t John see he’s busy?_   So, eventually, John dropped the subject.

But not talking about it and not _thinking_ about it were two very different things. John had been to war, he was practiced at getting his mind off things – not thinking about the elephant in the room was practically his job description – but not thinking about Sherlock? Impossible. And made even more difficult by the way the detective scurried about lately, wearing his tight pants (Sherlock getting fully dressed! Imagine that), constantly bending over to check the “experiment” under the bed, pacing in long strides in front of the clear plastic wall, taunting John without even intending to. To be honest, for a full day (one brief, glorious day), John had thought his attraction to Sherlock was over. He looked at the detective without getting an erection, he might, had they been talking like civilized member of society, been able to carry on a full conversation with Sherlock without the constant throb of arousal, but it was short lived.

The second morning after his birthday, John wanked in the shower, imaging Sherlock the entire time without even realizing what he was doing. It seemed second nature to him, now, for his mind to supply such images. And boy, could his mind supply. He imagined quite often the soft heat of Sherlock’s tongue on his nipples, his bollocks, his shaft. Sometimes he wondered what it’d be like to bend Sherlock over, slick his fingers and check Sherlock’s prostate like a good doctor would. He could imagine vividly Sherlock squirming under his practiced hands, begging for a little more.

And that was the moment he realized he was actually gay. Not _bad-prison-movie_ gay but actual _I-think-I_ _’_ _d-like-to-put-my-cock-in-my-flatmate_ _’_ _s-arse_ gay. There wasn’t much point in denying it to himself – not with his cock in his hand and thoughts of eating out Sherlock’s arsehole sounding _damn fantastic_ rattling around in his mind. Yes, he was definitely, _definitely_ gay – gay for Sherlock. Which, perhaps, would have been fine if Sherlock weren't sulking and ignoring John intermittently with throwing himself into unsolicited work like an Adderall-and-crystal-meth-fueled University student.

But John couldn’t just let it go – not when John had only a week left of having Sherlock entirely, exclusively to himself. After the quarantine, Sherlock would be free to flit about like a fairy and evade John, a skill he had honed long ago.  But now, with just the clear plexiglass wall separating the, Sherlock had nowhere to escape. He was John’s and only John’s for 7 more days.

Now, John could have just come out and said: “Sherlock, stop acting like a child and let me tell you all the compromising positions I’ve imagined you in over the past 3 days.” But that really would have been too easy, and John couldn’t give Sherlock the satisfaction. Better, really, to prolong the pleasure – Sherlock would enjoy it all the more if he used his powers of deduction. John knew exactly what he had to do.

It was time for John Watson to seduce Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

  


John was the king of nonchalance. He casually stripped his jumper, t-shirt and trousers and stretched, preparing for his afternoon workout. He neglected to put on his trainers or shorts. He began his pushups, ignoring Sherlock’s obvious sudden scrutiny. He alternated jumping jacks followed by more pushups, not bothering to wipe the sweat off his exposed chest, carefully avoiding glancing into Sherlock’s cell – he could hear the detective rummaging around, attempting to continue his experiments as if John’s near-nude, sweaty workout did not distract him in the least. But John was familiar by now with the detective’s habits, and he was _definitely_ moving more slowly today than yesterday. The realization that John’s workout distracted Sherlock was a heady one, and it made John achingly hard – difficult to work out with an erection bobbing up and down, but he pushed through it.

Finally, after 10 sets each of jumping jacks, pushups and sit ups, John pulled the blanket from his bed, folded it and laid it down as a mat. He collapsed on top of it, face up, pants obviously tented. A clang from the opposite side of the quarantine cell – Sherlock dropping a petri dish. John didn’t smirk at this, just put his hands on his chest, feeling his heartbeat as it slowed. Finally, he turned over, pushing his hands forward and his arse into the air into down-facing dog posture. It was murder on his shoulder, but the pain was worth it to hear Sherlock’s audible gasp. John ignored it in favor of continue into a complete sun salutation sequence, which he repeated four times before his shoulder gave out on him and he collapsed heavily on the makeshift mat.

Only after his heart rate settled and his breathing smoothed did he dare peak to Sherlock’s side of the cell. The detective looked away immediately, but not fast enough for John not to catch him staring. The doctor couldn’t hold back a smile as he lifted himself and the blanket from the floor. He’d have to incorporate yoga into his workout more often.

* * *

_  
_

_What exactly did John think he was playing at_? Sherlock wondered from his side of the quarantine cell. John was _tormenting_ him. Unintentionally – it had to be unintentional; John wasn’t a cruel man, was he? – After all but repeating _I_ _’_ _m not gay_ to his face _again_ , John had taken to blazon, tempting displays with his body (down facing dog _, really_?), and Sherlock could hardly concentrate on anything else. Why, _god why_ , did John want to make this harder on him? Committed as he was to respecting his flatmate wishes (and thereby avoiding further embarrassment on his part), Sherlock could hardly breathe for want of John’s body. He had hypothesis to test and experiments to conduct (a recent attempt at growing mold cultures in the quarantine cells a complete failure – possibly a sign of a healthy quarantine environment but nonetheless frustrating) and had no time for distractions such as arousal. Especially since John clearly wanted no more involvement with sexual activities. Or, rather, sexual activities involving Sherlock.

Why, then, was he torturing the detective with his sculpted physique, sweat sheened-muscles and tight gluteus maximus hidden only by snug briefs? Sherlock couldn’t watch it any longer – shouldn’t, anyway, since he’d never get to touch it – and, after many failed attempts to return to his research, retreated to his bathroom for the duration of John’s workouts. Not because he was painfully erect and in need of relief, of course not.

* * *

  


After three days of grueling, nearly-nude workouts – which served to capture Sherlock’s attention only briefly and almost always resulted in the detectives hasty retreat into his private loo – John decided he needed to step it up a notch. God be damned if he was going to go gay for Sherlock without unraveling his cool resolve.

* * *

 

That night, as he laid in bed, reassuring himself that what he was about to do was _for his own good as well as Sherlock_ _’_ _s_ , John prepared himself mentally. He wasn’t really the type of man who considered putting things in his arse on a regular basis but, well, it was time to step up his game.

He squirted a little lotion (plain, unscented, sterile, provided with their other toiletries upon arriving in quarantine) onto his index finger and slicked it against his thumb to warm it up before slowly slinking his hand between his thighs. He tensed – he hadn’t done this since med school, practicing gland location on himself – but with only three days left in quarantine and sensual, nearly-nude workouts not quite doing the trick, John Watson was getting desperate. Desperate enough to try solo prostate stimulation in the faint moonlight streaming through the skylight.

His fingers glanced over his puckered hole and he gasped, _oh_ , the lotion was still cold and his rim quivered. Determined, he rubbed it with gentle semi-circles, both warming the lubricant and easing the tension there. He took in deep breaths and tried not to wonder if Sherlock realized yet what he was doing. With a sheet draped over his thighs, he did not feel overwhelmingly self-conscious, but it nagged at him ever so slightly. But he needed to push through – for the sake of relieving his own arousal, if nothing else. Exhaling heavily, he plunged the tip of his middle finger just beyond his first sphincter. It wasn’t an unexpected or unpleasant sensation, but it was an unusual one and he coughed at the sudden intrusion – yes, this was exactly the same as med school. And yes, Sherlock was definitely starting to notice something was up.

John ignored to shifting noises from the other side of the partition and concentrated instead on calming his nerves as he continued rubbing small circles at his rim until he felt comfortable enough to descend past the second sphincter; his body tightened around the intrusion, but he knew what to expect. He made a few exploratory circles with his finger, testing the snugness and encouraging his anal cavity to relax. With his right hand, he gripped his cock, stroking it slowly and letting out a contented sigh. _Oh_ , this wasn’t so bad.

He didn’t have to look at the clear wall to know Sherlock was standing pressed against it, “John.” Sherlock said his name breathily and low. John swallowed and made a tiny whimper, pressing his finger a little further, seeking, seeking – _oh, yes, there_ , he let out an involuntary squeak as he grazed the gland, curling his finger forward. “John.” Sherlock repeated, “What… what are you doing?”

John grunted, “What – what do you think?” He pressed the tip of his finger upwards, _fuck_ , just enough pressure and he gasped.

“John.” Sherlock sounded out of breath, gulping in air, “John, let me see.”

John took in a deep breath and quietly chuckled. _Gotcha_ , he thought and carefully shifted his knees, unwillingly to release his finger after the work of getting it in, until the sheet slid down and Sherlock had a view of his ministrations.

“Oh god, _John_ ,” Biting his bottom lip, Sherlock strained to see his flatmate lying naked in the moonlight, knuckle deep in his own arse, giving himself a prostate massage for the detective’s viewing benefit.

John wanted to smile, maybe respond, but he was too distracted by Sherlock’s heavy breathing and the slow ache in his balls as he started rubbing his gland with the pad of his finger and simultaneously stroking his now fully erect cock. “Sherlock, I –” he choked out, unable to finish the sentence as a shiver of pleasure shot up his spine as if directly connected to his prostate.

John’s wrecked voice nearly broke Sherlock down right there, “How slick are you? Tell me what you feel like.”

“I’m drenched,” John stuttered, “Probably used half the lotion… it feels so good… like hot velvet,” As he spoke, he twisted his finger, desperate to get deeper but hindered by his short fingers. _What he’d give for Sherlock’s hands_.

“Do you think…” Sherlock’s voice was so low, it sounded like sin and John was sure he felt it vibrate through him, “Do you think you could fit another finger inside?”

“Unffff…” John wiggled his finger, testing the stretch and thinking, _yes, more_ but not really sure and feeling a bit more nervous with Sherlock’s eyes trained on him.

“Will you try? I want to see you.”

“Okay,” John grunted, slipping his middle finger out and using his thumb to spread the excess lotion from his skin onto his pointer finger. He took in a deep breath, “Okay, okay…” he rubbed again at his entrance, this time with two fingers. Already, it felt less tense, ready to welcome the wider intrusion. He pressed and sunk in, his arse taking the width eagerly. John heard the rustling of clothing on Sherlock’s side of the room and he hazarded a glance in that direction only to be met with the blood-rising vision of the detective laid bare, right hand gripping his cock, left leaning heavily on the pane of plastic between them. His pupils blown so wide and black, he looked like a man possessed. The sight made John groan and he stroked his cock a little quicker, “ _Fuck_ , Sherlock.” He felt loose and relaxed, crooking his fingers up and prodding the textured nub of his prostate. Tiny white sparks filled his vision and he thought he might explode right there.

“John, I… _god_ , you’re gorgeous.”

The doctor smirked and nodded, glad to finally see some effect on the detective after three days of work, “Oh god, Sherlock, I want to...”

Sherlock hit his left hand against the plexiglass as if to break it, “Yes,”  he whispered, sounding positively wrecked, “Yes, let me see you.”

“Sherlock… oh _fuck_ ,” John murmured, “I can’t… I’m so…” words, sentences, communication were all failing him as he experimentally twisted, prodded, scissoring his fingers so the stretch and burn felt so, _so_ good like a liquid fire spreading from the fingers in his arse through his body and back to his cock. It felt like a wave of pressure, and he couldn’t wait for it to break across him. But he was so overwhelmed, so hot and unsure if he could control himself long enough for the combination of sensations to overpower him. His right hand felt weak with the effort of maintaining a steady rhythm and his left felt strained from the position, trying to stay inside himself, wanting more and less and more, more, _more_ but only just being able to reach…

“John, I’m coming over there.”

John stopped his desperate motions, but did not pull his fingers back, “Don’t you dare, Sherlock,” he sounded out of breath and totally, 100% debauched, “Only three days left… don’t,” he gasped, “Spoil it.”

“Sod the quarantine! I’d much rather spend the next 60 days studying _you_ than the natives.”

“You say such sweet things when you’re aroused,” John chuckled, “But if you set that alarm off while I’ve got two fingers up my arse, I’ll never forgive you.”

“What if they were my fingers?”

“Sherlock!” John scolded, his laughter causing him to shift and his fingers to rub him _just right_ so he didn’t want to stop, “You’ll just have to be patient. Now, tell me, do you want to get me off or not?”

Sherlock growled, a deep purr like a jaguar, “Tell me what you want me to do.”

John couldn’t hide a smile – this was a day for miracles, “Just talk to me. Your voice… _god,_ just talk to me.”

“Okay, okay, I can’t imagine… god, what you must feel like. You look… I can see from here you’re so tight, just imagining what it would feel like to be inside you…” Sherlock fisted his cock, thinking about the sweet heat John must feel on his fingers and John released a breathy moan, “My fingers are longer than yours, I bet I’d have no trouble finding your prostate. I’ve been debating testing the theory on myself, but you’ve clearly beat me to that experiment. Imagine it’s me touching you right now, can you do that?”

John nodded and whimpered, yes, yes he could _definitely_ imagine Sherlock doing this to him. He bucked up into his hand, willing almost to tell Sherlock he changed his mind – he was more than willing to get caught in this compromising position if it meant the detective would just _touch him_.

“Move your fingers in and out. I want to see you fuck yourself on them.”

Oh, _oh fuck_ , Sherlock’s filthy words went straight to John’s cock and he nearly came in that moment, but he calmed himself and slowly pulled him fingers back, teasing his rim and then canting them forward, just nudging his gland. Fucking beautiful, he closed his eyes and repeated the motion.

“God, what I would give to be over there, John.” Sherlock licked his lips, stroking himself harder and faster, wondering again how John tasted.

Fuck, what happened to him? Thirty minutes ago he was still irritated, brooding, certain John felt no more sexual attraction toward him. Where was he when John decided to do _this_? How could he miss this idea popping into the doctor’s head? And he called himself a detective?

 “Keep… talking,” John breathed, “I love the way you sound right now.” He rolled his hips, impaling himself as deeply as he could, scissoring his fingers and suddenly wishing it were possible to feel even _more_ full.

Sherlock rested his forehead against the clear wall, “ _Fuck_ , John, you sound so gone, I can’t even…” He slicked his thumb over the head of his cock, wetting it with precome and nearly whinging from the heady arousal of being so, _so_ close to John, but still just too far, “The things we are going to do when we get out of here… god, John, do not hold me accountable for my actions when they release us. I will be a man possessed, god, maybe I already am.”

John’s breaths were short and uneven, like he might even pass out, “John,” Sherlock continued, “Do you think… do you think you could put a third finger in?”

The doctor was covered in sweat, not even close to being able to form words, but he nodded. Yes, yes, he would try. Without pulling his index or middle fingers out, he attempted to slide a third in. He was so slick and lubricated with lotion, he couldn’t really find any friction and he couldn’t make his body stop moving as he canted up into his hand and then down, grinding against his fingers as they scraped against his prostate, making him quiver and wail. “I can’t… I can’t…”

“Do it, John, I want you to be stretched out so I get inside you right away.”

John sobbed a little, thinking of Sherlock shoving his way inside him, filling John the way he ached to feel. Finally, he plunged his third finger in, feeling the burn of the stretch overwhelm him as he squeezed the head of his cock. His body pulsed and gripped the intrusion and he curled his fingers as best he could, trying to hit it just _so_ – “John, I want to fuck you so hard right now,” – and that was it, John was completely wrecked. His orgasm came over him like a wave made of bricks, and he pumped himself through it. God, _fuck_ , god, _Sherlock_.

The detective watched in awe as John came apart at the sound of his voice, watched him rocking his body through his orgasm. The sight was so perfect, so utterly surreal and beautiful Sherlock could not deny his own body and longer. It took under 10 seconds to bring himself to completion, his come spurting out over his hand and landing on the plexiglass wall between him and the man he desperately wanted to soothe and comfort.

John’s breaths were shaky and uneven, deep and harsh. Slowly, carefully, he pulled back his fingers, the strange sensation of his arse constricting and attempting to close behind him. “Sherlock,” he coughed, his voice harsh like a chronic smoker.

“I’m here, John.” Sherlock leaned entirely against the wall, as if stepping away might cause him to fall.

“Sherlock, I –“

“That was incredible. You are incredible.”

John laughed, “You sound like me.”

The detective huffed, “And do you see why I like it so much?”

“Hmm, yes, it’s nice to hear.”

“John, when we get out of here –“

“Yes. Absolutely yes. And let’s never stop.”

Sherlock smiled, nothing had ever sounded so perfect, “I was an idiot – earlier, I mean. The past couple of days… I’m sorry.”

John laughed again, “This is a day for the record books. You’re always an idiot, Sherlock,” he responded, still trying to catch his breath so he might be able to clean himself up, “But I love you for it.”

Sherlock was dumbfounded and silent – not for the first time with John, he’d readily admit, “John, I… I think I love you, too.”

John found his strength, then, sitting up and ignoring his own nudity, “Of course you do, you git. Now, if you don’t mind, I need a shower.”

Sherlock smirked and nodded, “Me too, John. Me too.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I've said a million times that I'm done with this fandom -- and I am, I really am -- but idk, I wrote up in the middle of the night and wrote this. There's some flaws, obvi, and it hasn't been beta'd (I was too impatient) and yeah... I had another ending in mind for this originally, but the more I think about it, the more I think this one is for the best.
> 
> As a thank you for your patience with me, I've made this chapter entirely smut.
> 
> Enjoy.

John thought it’d be awkward, of course, when they were finally out of the quarantine area, heading deeper into the island and toward the hut they would call home for the next 2 months. He thought it’d be fumbling and stiff and that he and Sherlock would be blundering their way through this like 14 year old virgins.

But that’s _not_ what happened.

What happened was as soon as they were out of sight of the quarantine facility, Sherlock bullied him off the path and up against a rock, grabbing his wrists and kissing them tenderly in turn, making John’s blood boil and his cock spring to life like Sherlock was the only thing that could save it. And soon, Sherlock had the doctor’s hands pinned above his head, mouthing unintelligibly against his neck and John couldn’t even confirm if the mumblings were even in _English_ because all he could hear was the blood pounding in his ears and his own need to get Sherlock inside him _now-if-not-sooner_. He had just a faint understanding that he was probably moaning Sherlock’s name over and over and was otherwise incoherent, but there wasn’t much he could do about that in his present state. Instead he bucked up, forcefully bringing his groin in contact with Sherlock’s and letting out a desperate whine.

Something about the movement dragged Sherlock out of his lust-filled daze and he slowly and careful released his grip on John’s wrists.

“ _Fuck,_ ” he cursed, shuddering, “Come on, we need to reach the village before dark.”

John, though, couldn’t fucking move to save his or anyone else’s life. His hands hung uselessly in the air and his vision was blurry like he was looking straight into the desert heat.

He dropped to his knees, “ _Sherlock_ ,” he croaked, not quite sure where else he planned to go to that. 

Sherlock reached down and grabbed his wrist again, a wicked grin flaring up onto his face, “Yes, yes, I heartedly agree to all the things you’re suggesting, but we _need_ to go. I promise it will be worth your while.” And then he fucking _winked_ that slick bastard and John struggled again to move, trailing along in a lust-filled stupor wondering how the fuck this became his life.

\---

The hut was nothing special. Or, really, it might have been Buckingham fucking Palace for all John paid attention to it once they opened the door. There was a mat on the floor in the corner -- just one, John would observe later, blushing red at the idea that their quarantine companions knew _exactly_ what they’d been up to -- and they barely made it that far as he less-than-gently shoved his great consulting detective onto it.

“Bloody bastard,” he heard himself saying, “Getting me _fucking worked up_ ,” He cursed pulling at the buttons of the shirt Sherlock had changed into before they’d left the facility, “Not making good on promises --” He was sucking hard at Sherlock’s neck, now, determined to leave dark and painful bruises so Sherlock couldn’t doubt for a second who he belonged to, all the while pulling at his own shirt, Sherlock’s trousers, his pants, everything, because they both needed to be fucking _naked_ like yesterday.

Sherlock made a noise, it might have been a chuckle but came out strangled like a cross between a snort and a moan and John thought that was just about as _hot as anything could ever be_ because now Sherlock was _touching him_. It was skin against skin and compared to the fucking plexiglass, this was fucking HEAVEN and he wasn’t ever going to let it go.

Sherlock was panting, glad now he wasn’t a cigarette smoker any longer or he’d probably be having an asthma attack, “John,” he nearly coughed, “My bag.. the lotion.” 

John leaned back, suddenly, biting his lip and nodding, “Fuck, yes, finally.” He leaned away from Sherlock, stretching and Sherlock couldn’t stop himself from running fingers over skin. _Fuck_ this was ten thousand times better than he could have ever imagined it.

Finally, John was shoving lotions into Sherlock’s hands and moaning, “Open me up, do it.”

Sherlock had never used his defensive training for something so enjoyable as he flipped them in a single move so John was writhing underneath him. They were both naked now -- or mostly, John had one sock on and Sherlock could feel the leg of his boxers caught on his left foot -- and that made it so, so easy to slick his fingers and reach down to touch John.

He started with John’s cock, partially because he assumed that was the polite way to go and partially because he found himself desperate to just _touch_ it after all the time he’d dedicated to imagining it. Part of him wanted to stop here, to spend the next few hours working John, testing his limits and recording every gasp and moan as data to study later, but his own erection was too pressing to ignore and he groaned in frustration as he slid his fingers lower, lower until -- _finally_. He felt the pucker of John’s hole and it was like a punch to his gut. His fingers were unsteady, shaking, and part of him _hated_ that because he felt so out of control, but another part, a deeper, more primal part of him, just wanted to fucking _explore_ , so he did that, rubbing gentle circles against John who opened for him with a shaking sigh.

John was still loose from the past 3 days, each one spent carefully training himself open at every opportunity so to allow for this moment -- Sherlock preparing to enter him with minimal effort. Sherlock heard a noise and took some time to register that it was coming from his own throat, a reaction to the hot, wet sensation of John pulsing around his now _two_ fingers.

“I’m ready, damnit,” John panted gripping Sherlock’s shoulders hard, staring Sherlock right in the eye.

Sherlock bit his lip -- John was ready, but was he? They were both virgins to this, really, it’s not like John had ever had a cock up his arse, but Sherlock still felt _new_ and amateurish. He knew the premise, but a faint glare of concern lit up in the back of his mind -- what if he was no good at this?

“Get out of your head and get into me,” John said through gritted teeth, fucking himself down onto Sherlock’s -- wow 3, when did that happen? -- fingers, now clearly grazing that sweet spot inside him.

“We haven’t got -- protection,” Sherlock groaned, pulling his fingers out of John with an audible squelch.

And John fucking _laughed_ , “I’m a doctor, you idiot, you think I haven’t been tested?” He was wrapping his legs around Sherlock now -- his good _and_ bad one, indicating just how far gone he was -- “And you’re a virgin, whose chart I’ve seen a thousand times. Get. In. Me.”

Well, Sherlock couldn’t fault the logic in that, and John was driving him to insanity, grinding against him, seeking friction and Sherlock’s cock. And who was he to deny John this? Carefully and with shaking, barely controllable hands, Sherlock reached between them and guided himself against John’s entrance. They both stopped breathing as Sherlock slowly breached him, sinking into the heat and thinking briefly: _I could die here and not regret a moment_. 

Overwhelmed, Sherlock buried his face in John’s neck, a low moan the only indication that his heart was still beating. John, though, wasn’t patient enough to let his virgin flatmate adjust for one goddamn second. His cock was trapped between them, pretty hotly against Sherlock’s skin, and he could _absolutely not_ stay still.

It took a moment for Sherlock to realize John was moving, gently encouraging him back to himself. The rhythm of it couldn’t be denied and Sherlock found himself immediately catching up, rutting into John in time with the doctor’s thrusts down.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” they both said simultaneously, clinging to each other and letting the wet noises of their coupling overwhelm them. 

“Jesus, Sherlock, you’re perfect,” John was muttering and Sherlock couldn’t get enough of that voice in his ear.

It didn’t take very long for Sherlock’s thin resolve to break and he was pretty sure the only thing that kept him from falling apart the moment he entered John was the sheer _shock_ of it, so he was hardly surprised when he started to lose that rhythm, starting to fuck somewhat mindlessly, murmuring, “John, John, _John.”_

As Sherlock started to let go, so, too, did John, unable to prevent the quick slide bringing him perilously close the edge. His cock was still trapped against his and Sherlock’s hot stomachs, and he knew he wouldn’t have to touch it any further to guarantee his release, not with Sherlock shifting, desperate to hit every single spot within him.

It didn’t take much, really, just John giving his buttocks a gentle squeeze, and Sherlock was falling, toppling over an abyss and coming, _fuck_ , coming harder than he’d ever done while in quarantine, emptying himself into John. And John, bless him, was riding him through it, clenching and gasping, finally letting himself go and releasing between them.

It took all Sherlock’s willpower and then some not to just collapse directly onto John and sleep for the next 3 days, but he managed to slide out and shift over so he wasn’t lying quite on John’s bad shoulder.

\---

John wasn’t quite sure what he should do, what with Sherlock lying near comatose against him, skin still against skin, and they were in a strange and foreign place and _oh god_ he’d just let Sherlock fuck him and jesus bloody christ, what was going to happen now? 

Sherlock shifted again, movement coming to him in little chaotic bursts like he didn’t have the energy to reach whatever goal location he sought in one go. He curled up, finally, next to John, murmuring. 

John’s heart froze, wondering for a second if he’d truly cocked things up and _what if Sherlock got weird  post-sex_ and _what if it wasn’t good for him_ and _what if I’ve ruined everything_ before finally forcing out the word, “What?”

Sherlock yawned, not quite finding the energy to turn fully back up to face John, “I'd like to get some data on this..."

John chuckled, turning then to pull Sherlock closer to him, “That’s one experiment I’m happy to help you with.”


End file.
